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Copyright N° 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


GPO 








*. 











THE 

SWINGING GODDESS 



























, THE 

SWINGING GODDESS 

By 

MARJORIE CARLETON 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 






COPYRIGHT, 1926 

Bt SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 

(INCORPORATED) 


V 


« c 


Printed in the United States of America 


THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 

THE BOSTON BOOKBINDING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 




©C1AS9053 5\^ ' 

VO fy 


J 

H 


r> 

r 

o 

TO MY MOTHER 

(t 

Whose gay wit spices all her justice, 

And the charm of whose mind and spirit 
Will remain an imperishable grace 
In the hearts of her children. 





k \ 








* 






CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAG* 


I. 

Venus and the Daring Petersens . 

1 

II. 

Venus Essays the Tight Rope 

14 

III. 

Venus Encounters Lavender Shadows . 

27 

IV. 

Frankie. 

39 

V. 

A Trunk, Some Baby Shoes, and a Few 
Speculations. 

53 

VI. 

The First Doubts. 

67 

VII. 

Frankie Seizes the Limelight 

81 

VIII. 

Wherein the Primitive Prevails . 

95 

IX. 

The Wounded Amazon .... 

115 

X. 

Pied Piper Petersen .... 

125 

XI. 

Out of the Frying Pan .... 

139 

XII. 

Nettles. 

164 

XIII. 

Boulevards and Brass Buttons . 

184 

XIV. 

Wherein Venus’s Mask is Torn . 

212 

XV. 

Drake Takes a Hand .... 

223 

XVI. 

The Letter. 

252 

XVII. 

Home Again .. 

268 

XVIII. 

The Brick Loft. 

276 

XIX. 

Desdemona. 

286 

XX. 

Mr. Rosenberg is Soothed . 

298 

XXI. 

The Worst Abyss. 

312 

XXII. 

Wherein Venus Reaches Solid Ground 

332 


vii 






THE 

SWINGING GODDESS 













THE 

SWINGING GODDESS 


Venus and the Daring Petersens 



ELGA PETERSEN pushed aside the dusty 
plush portieres and stood for a moment 
unobserved, studying the inner room and 
its occupants. The afternoon sun struck 
through the coarse lace curtains and 
across the garishly new piano, revealing careless finger¬ 
marks and a thin gray film of dust. Helga’s brows 
drew together. Though there were three other women 
in the family, the house still became disorderly when¬ 
ever she was absent. Her mother’s ample form was 
bent over her endless Italian embroidery—for pity’s 
sake, why wasn’t she using the new sewing machine 
instead, to make slip covers for the shabby chairs? 
There were several voices murmuring busily—evidently 
a family conclave to welcome her and inquire into her 
unexpected appearance. 

“Well, here I am.” 

She lounged into the room with that rather insolent 
grace of hers, letting the portieres fall slowly behind 
her. 

“Helga!” She forestalled her mother’s panting 
attempt to arise, by dropping a quick kiss on her 
cheek; submitted to a slap on the shoulder from her 
taciturn brother, and stood for an instant while her 
1 











2 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


father’s arms encircled her. Then she slid away and 
installed herself with a nice balance on her upturned 
suitcase. In the knowledge of the blow she was about 
to deal them, her heart rebelled at allowing them to 
expend further affection. 

“Well, Venus,” said her father, rather heavily, “back 
from college kind of soon, aren’t ye—looking as pretty 
as ever, though.” 

“Rather prettier, I think,” said Venus coolly. “The 
life’s fearfully regular—meals by the clock and bed 
at ten, you know.” 

She had not removed her hat or coat, and now from 
the ample pocket of the latter, she drew a small ciga¬ 
rette case. Her brother took a quick step forward. 

“Helga, if you start that, your stunt days are over!” 

Her mother’s stilled hands and her father’s widened 
gaze were evidence that they too realized the strange 
significance of her act. 

“Are you smoking now?” Ed demanded. His sister 
nodded at him slowly, a challenge in her eyes. 

“You know what it means? That you can never 
do a turn again?” His words cracked like sharp 
whips. “Three of those things a day and your feet 
couldn’t keep the ropes if they were tied on—why, 
you couldn’t hang on to that window ledge ten 
minutes!” 

“That’s right, Venus,” her father interrupted in a 
kindly and anxious voice, “you can’t do it. I didn’t 
take up smoking until I was all through with that 
kind of work.” 

Helga scratched a match and lit the cigarette. 

“I’m through with it, too,” she said quietly, “but 
I’d rather not talk about it until you’re all here. I 
couldn’t go through my spiel twice. Where’re Aunt 
Tina and Florence?” abruptly. 


VENUS AND THE DARING PETERSENS 3 


There was a repressed silence in the room, broken 
finally by a little sigh from Mr. Petersen. His puzzled 
eyes were still on his daughter as he spoke. 

“Tina’s upstairs getting dressed. She had a mean 
job on this morning—when it was raining, you know. 
Now that she’s getting older, I think sometimes— 
afterwards—she has nerves.” 

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Petersen looked up and shook 
her head. “My little sister is quite so good as ever. 
You should be proud of your aunt, Helga.” Mrs. 
Petersen’s dark Italian face lit up. She was in her 
element when rejoicing in her family. “This morning, 
if you please, she had a job on to help the steeple 
jack gild the cross on the old St. Mary’s. Well, what 
do you think? The steeple jack gets a sickness to his 
nerves because it is raining and the spire is more 
dangerous. So Tina, she says they will go up this 
afternoon. But the wretch that engaged them tells 
Tina, please to go up this morning—he has some of his 
friends come special to see her do it. ‘You are the 
only woman steeple jack in the country and they want 
to see you,’ he says, softing her. Tina comes back 
real sharp—good for her. 

“ ‘Well,’ she says, ‘if you’re paying me thirty dollars 
to gild that cross, then I’ll go up that steeple the first 
dry day. But if you want me to take a chance on a 
rainy day—just to show me off to your friends—then 
you can just give me a hundred dollars for doing a 
stunt!’ And he did it, too—Tina salted it away in the 
bank on her way home. How is that for a smart aunt, 
Helga?” Mrs. Petersen picked out a colored floss 
complacently. Helga was laconic. 

“True to the family traditions all right.” But the 
smile with which she greeted the tired little woman 
who had just entered the room was a warm one. Every 


4 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


one loved shrewd little Tina Farnese. The latter 
pressed the girl’s fingers between her hardened palms. 

“Our baby back again! And your sister slipping 
home between performances just to see you. Here, 
Florence! ” 

Florence entered and the two sisters stood apprais¬ 
ing each other, after the longest absence that had 
ever separated their rather uncongenial temperaments. 
Helga saw that her sister’s dark, stunted prettiness, 
inherited from the Italian mother, showed for the first 
time, at least to her eyes, a perceptible coarseness, a 
fugitive, haggard droop to the lips. And Florence saw 
with half-proud, half-resentful stare, new values in 
Helga’s appearance. 

Helga was the only one of the children who had 
their Swedish father’s hair—tawny, wavy, vigorous. 
Yet she always gave the fleeting impression of being 
dark, perhaps because of lowering, slim, black brows 
over amber eyes, or because of a skin that blended with 
her hair, a combination one sees once in a century. 
Florence had always preferred her own petite propor¬ 
tions. Now, for the first time, she realized that Helga’s 
length of limb had a clean proportion that suggested 
nothing of mere bulk, though her figure was rather full- 
bosomed for present-day styles. Helga had a Viking 
woman’s body with a feline grace and suppleness in 
using her large, white hands and her long, slender feet; 
she carried the full ivory throat now with a subtle 
assurance which had been absent. And her wide 
scarlet mouth seemed pressed into new self-control. 

Florence ran across the room. 

“Well, Venus,” she said, with her little twisted laugh, 
“I see for the first time that you’re twenty and grown¬ 
up. How come you’re home from college at this time? 
Over at the Island today I was just blowing to the 


VENUS AND THE DARING PETERSENS 5 


crowd that my sister was knocking the spots out of 
Smith College.” 

Helga studied her hands—hands which had grown 
whiter and softer in the last few months. 

“It's a long story, Florence,” she said finally. “I 
want to hear all the family stuff first. How’s the new 
stunt going? You look keyed up.” Her sister’s laugh 
was strained, and she answered in an unnecessarily 
loud voice. 

“I hate to tell you. Pop, you’ll blow me up. It’s a 
puny little stunt, Sis, but I rather think it’s got my 
goat. Just the old stuff. I start down the runway in 
a little old aluminum hack, hop over fifteen feet of 
thin air and speed away down the rest of the runway.” 

“I know,” Helga nodded indifferently. “Tried some¬ 
thing similar myself. What’s the trouble?” Florence 
flung away from her and faced the rest of the family, 
little spots of high color in her drawn cheeks. 

“I’m a piker,” she said shrilly. “I’ve made the 
management put invisible nets under that fifteen feet. 
I kept thinking and thinking, and one day the car 
nearly missed the second runway—and it’s a thirty- 
foot drop. The manager didn’t want to do it, but he’s 
spent a lot advertising and he can’t find any one else 
who’ll do the stuff right away. So I did it today with 
the nets, though he made me take twenty dollars 
instead of a hundred. What’s the difference?” her 
voice was shriller. “The audience don’t know. Poor 
fools, they pay their money and get their thrills just 
the same.” 

“Florence!” Her father’s voice broke in. “You’ve 
lost your nerve!” No one spoke, but Florence felt the 
inaudible condemnation. In a family whose world¬ 
wide notoriety was based on physical daring, the accu¬ 
sation was a terrible one. The girl’s head dropped. 


6 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Losing your nerve—that ain’t no crime,” her 
father went on with difficulty, his tone denying his 
statement, “but faking something, that’s a crime in 
this family, ain’t it? Do you want to ruin the reputa¬ 
tion of the Five Daring Petersens—their reputation for 
giving the real stuff? That’s what you’ll do if you 
keep this up. Look at your brother Ed, the Human 
Fly. Well, if he feels he wants nets, he has ’em, but 
the world can see ’em. Look at your sister Helga. 
She tight-roped between two sixty-foot masts when 
she was thirteen—nothing phony about that—nor 
when she dived with all them weights on—just her 
two hands and feet to help her. Look at me. I lost 
my eye for the trapezes. Your mother—” he cast an 
adoring look at his mammoth wife, “she never had 
any nerves to lose—greatest trapeze performer of 
her time, but she kind of put on weight after you 
children come along. But I’m telling you, when I 
lost my eye for the bars, I didn’t put up any fakes. 
I made a new name for myself rat-catching. No 
new-fangled methods either—no force of men working 
for me. You know that. They call me Pied Piper 
Petersen—and I earned that name—it’s a hard busi¬ 
ness.” Helga shuddered, but her father’s eyes were 
still on Florence. 

“Now, listen, Florence,” he went on, “the whole 
family will stand by me in this. You lay off stunts 
until you get your nerve back. You got no right to 
risk us all on a fake. If you don’t ever get it back, 
your mother can teach you some real good embroidery 

stitches-” He paused, for, with a hysteric laugh, 

Florence had stumbled from the room. Mr. Petersen 
mopped his brow and turned apologetically to his 
younger daughter. 

“Sorry, Venus, for you to come into this on your 


VENUS AND THE DARING PETERSENS 7 


first day home. Take off your things and stay awhile,” 
he added with jocularity. Venus stretched, like a huge 
cat bringing every muscle into play in preparation 
for a crisis. 

“I’m afraid there’ll be another scene, Pa,” she said 
with reluctant affection. “I’m not going to stay. 
I’m going to bury Venus Petersen, take a new name 
and my whole bank account and disappear!” It came 
out baldly, as she intended. Unlike a feline, Venus did 
not worry her victims before she struck. 

“Just a minute,” she raised a hand and then turned 
to her silent brother. “Ed, make them listen before 
they say anything. Now, here you are, folks, and Pa, 
you’ve said most of it for me. A long timp before I 
went to college I was getting sick of being one of a 
freak family—one of the Five Daring Petersens,” bit¬ 
terly, “written about all the time in the newspapers, 
living on notoriety, making scads of money out of 
weird stunts that do no one any good! ” 

“Well, I’m sure that gilding a cross—” began her 
Aunt Tina, in a worried, wistful fashion, but Ed 
silenced her with a shake of the head. His hard, cold 
eyes were unblinkingly on this sister of his. 

“Florence and Ed never went to high school,” 
Helga went on, “so they don’t know what I suffered 
from the way everybody, well, just looked at me. The 
girls were positively afraid of me—and their mothers 
thought that a little girl who had her measurements in 
the papers and who was a Wriggling Wonder and was 
nicknamed Venus, and tight-roped on buildings for a 
street crowd was not the proper kind of a playmate for 
their daughters. That’s really why I insisted on going 
to college—I wanted to sink myself for a while. No¬ 
body there would know that Helga Petersen was Venus 
Petersen. They didn’t for a time, and you can’t 


8 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


imagine how wonderful it was to be treated like a real 
person and not like a sort of monster. 

“Then—” Helga’s voice was unsteady, “then one 
day we were in the gym—a regular class, but with 
several of the girls in my house in it. I got through 
my stunts sooner than any one else, of course. So I 
shinnied up the pole and looked around for something 
interesting to do before the class exercises began. 
I—I did a fool thing—cut my own throat. There was 
a long rafter about six inches wide right under the 
roof, and it ran past the pole to one of the window lad¬ 
ders. I was on top of the pole, so I slid down a little 
and landed on the rafter, ran across it—had on my 
gym shoes, you know—and went down the window 
ladders. 

“When I dropped to the floor, I found the whole 
class in perfect hysterics and the instructors as pale 
as sheets. Then some fool girl shrieked out: 

“ ‘Oh, it was just like one of the Daring Peter¬ 
sens !’ And the head instructor asked me right out 
if I were Venus Petersen. When I said I was—feeling 
like going through the floor—she was real sweet about 
it, took me aside and got all excited about getting up 
some exhibition matches and stunts. But my goose 
was cooked. It got around and several reporters came 
up from Springfield, and the head of the house got 
snooty about them, and well, it was—hell! I was a 
freak again. Then the college got quarantined for 
‘flu’ and I broke quarantine. They wouldn’t let me 
back now, probably, if I wanted to go back, which I 
don’t, though I—I had a wonderful time before they 
knew that—that—” Helga’s voice was unsteady now, 
“that my father is Pied Piper Petersen and catches 
rats in a sensational way, and my brother wanders up 
and down the Woolworth Building on the outside, and 


VENUS AND THE DARING PETERSENS 9 


my aunt’s favorite perch is on top of a steeple—not 
to mention my own reputation!” She was sobbing and 
laughing alternately. Her mother laid down her 
sewing. 

“My dear, I hope this doesn’t mean that you have 
already this ‘flu’,” she murmured anxiously. Helga 
laughed louder. 

“Oh, if the girls could hear you,” she gasped. 
“You’ve seen me walk tight-ropes, and the flu para¬ 
lyzes you! Oh, don’t you see the joke?” 

Her father, who had been pacing the room, stopped. 
His pale blue eyes were dulled. There had suddenly 
become something defenceless about him, as though 
some old garment of pride had been rudely stripped 
away. 

“I see, yes, that it is very funny,” he said with 
gentle irony. “I see that it is very hard, also, for a 
girl to have to be ashamed of her family, to hate her 
name—to have a father who is not a Pied Piper— 
with a song, but just a nasty old man who catches 

rats as no one else can do-” Mrs. Petersen’s 

plump cheeks were fiery and she flung down her 
sewing. 

“Your mother is of the most famous circus fam¬ 
ily in the world,” she cried shrilly. “On my side you 
can count back your grandfathers Farnese twelve 
generations! How many of your nice friends can do 
that? Your brother Ed runs up the side of the Wool- 
worth Building, does he? Well, tell me if your fine 
men friends have lived so clean the life with not a 
drink or a smoke or a bad woman so they have good 
nerves such as that? You—you, my baby, you that 
are too good for your family, are the first of my chil¬ 
dren to smoke!” Her voice broke and her husband 
patted her pudgy hand. 



10 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“The nicest turned figure in the world, Ma, when we 
got married/’ he comforted her irrelevantly. Helga 
sprang up and put her arms about her mother. 

“Ma, I didn’t mean it that way,” she protested. 
“In the circus it was different. If we were all there 
now, I wouldn’t care—I’d be proud. It’s a little world 
all by itself there and we’d be at the top. The pub¬ 
licity we’d get would just be circus publicity. But 
out here in the world, in the cities, in schools—we’re 
just—side shows! Oh, you can’t understand. You 
like the notoriety—you’re proud of it, you live in it. 
I’m glad of it for you, because it’s your life. But I— 

I’ll die if I can’t get out of it. Look at me-” 

She stood up and flung off her hat and coat with a 
characteristically splendid gesture. “Look at me! 
Isn’t there anything better for me than walking tight¬ 
ropes? Isn’t there? But I’ll never get it—not as long 
as I’m Venus Petersen.” She was speaking more 
quietly now. 

“Why, I can see a change in Florence—if you can’t. 
In the circus, Ma, you had your nice people and your 
nice sets, one big family, and you at the top. Florence 
doesn’t get that. She’s running around with a cheap 
crowd of folks out at the Island, I bet you—that’s 
the only kind she can meet—the only kind that’s will¬ 
ing to run around with one of the Daring Petersens. 
With Ed, of course, it’s different. A man can pick and 
choose more, though—” with a twisted smile at Ed, 
“he may have a hard time finding a wife who’ll let him 
be a Human Fly.” 

“What do you want to do, Venus?” Ed’s calm voice 
seemed to put a period to emotion. Helga drew a 
long breath and looked at him gratefully. 

“I’ve got something over ten thousand dollars in the 
bank,” she answered, “and I think I won’t try college 



VENUS AND THE DARING PETERSENS 11 


again, since I can't go back to the one I want. I plan 
to go to a different city and take a place that's—been 
suggested to me, and make myself a new identity—be 
a person and not—a freak." 

Her mother drew long breaths like a person who 
has been running. Her fine black eyes were veiled. 

“So—you cut yourself off from your family?" 

“For a while, yes," Helga answered steadily, “since 
that is the only way. If I can make a new Helga, 
then, if you’ll let me, I’ll want to see you all a lot." 

“By the back door, Sis?" Ed interpolated dryly. 
Helga flashed on him. 

“I seem wicked and selfish, I know, for wanting to 
change my life from yours. But none of you have 
offered to change yours for me, have you? You could 
do it if you wanted to. You're all on easy street with 
a good deal more than I have earned. You and Pa and 
Florence could do something else, move away from 
New York with me, if you cared as much as you 
expect me to care. I'm not asking you to do it, I 
know the hold the life has on you folks, the friends 
you have made here. Well, it hasn’t any hold on me 
and these people could never be my friends, that's 
all-" 

She crushed her small hat again over her hair and 
pulled on her coat. 

“I—I'm taking the train for Boston tonight," she 
said with averted, sullen eyes. “I came all the way 
from Northampton to tell this to you myself—to say 
good-by, for a little while. It’s best for me to go 
now—while you’re all hating me." A moan rumbled 
from her mother’s ample bosom. 

“My little Helga will no more sleep by her mother’s 
room, me that left the circus—that made herself a fat 
old woman from a pretty girl, so that little Helga 



12 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


should nurse no more on a dirty train- Ah, Dio, 

what would Papa Farnese say to this mud on his great 

name-” She maundered on, and pushed Helga 

away with a futile hand as the girl bent to kiss her. 
Ed stood with averted eyes as she turned uncertainly 
to him, but her father picked up her suitcase in his 
gnarled old hands and followed her silently into the 
hall, his pale brows working above the rheumy old 
eyes. 

“Helga, where are you going in Boston? You can’t 
kill your mother by her not knowing where you are 
or if you’re safe.” 

“I’ll go to the Young Women’s Christian Association, 
Pa, until I find a regular place. When I get it, I’ll 
wire you, but you mustn’t expect to hear much from 
me for a long while.” 

“Sure, I understand that—just to know—you’re 
all right.” He handed her the suitcase awkwardly, but 
the girl suddenly threw it down and flung both young 
arms about him with a stormy violence. He stood 
still a moment and then opened the door with a 
strange dignity. 

“Venus,” he said hesitantly, as she started down the 
steps, “I want you should get things straight —some 
one has to catch rats.” The girl’s lips did not even 
curve as she turned and patted his hand. 

“I know it, Pa. Good-by.” 

Still with dignity, he closed the door. But once 
inside, he looked down at his twisted old hands in the 
bewilderment of shame. Pied Piper Petersen! His 
task had been glorified for him by that name—it had 
shed a strange old-time glamour upon it, a suggestion 
of medieval magic, a suggestion of a merry, shrewd¬ 
eyed youth who slew sinister pests and was lauded by 
a whole country—Pied Piper Petersen! Of course 


VENUS AND THE DARING PETERSENS 13 


now he saw what the name was—just a sly joke at a 
ghoulish and degrading job, at a senile old man. 

The door of the dining room was open. He glided 
past the living room portieres and seated himself 
stiffly on one of the golden-oak chairs. There he sat 
numbly in the growing dusk. Helga—his baby! Per¬ 
haps—even Ed, behind that still, filial mask of his— 
laughed—too? 


II 

Venus Essays the Tight Rope 


HE suburban express hurtled past Allston 
and Brighton, gave a glimpse or two of 
the famous if diminutive Charles, and 
finally pulled up abruptly at one of the 
Newtons. Helga drew a breath of relief 
as she left the little station. After the dark provin¬ 
cialism of the South Station, this immediate entrance 
into a world that showed green and spacious even 
under the waning spring light was exhilarating. She 
swung up the hill, the long, slim lines of her body bal¬ 
ancing the heavy suitcase as easily as though it were 
a hand bag. Her cheeks were not even flushed as 
she paused at the top of the steep incline and then 
turned down a side street. 

The houses that clustered on either side of its ave¬ 
nues of shade trees were of a period long preceding 
that of the standardized and modified white Colonial. 
Their unexpected turrets, circular open verandas and 
massive bay windows spoke of the days when service 
was plentiful and fuel cheap. Ugly, some of them 
were, too, in their chocolate hues, but in most cases 
the carefully groomed lawns and sweeping drives sug¬ 
gested a vanished and patriarchal family life. At the 
hedge-arched entrance that led to one rambling brown 
structure, which sprawled over a knoll far back from 
the street, the girl paused and turned in rather doubt¬ 
fully. It was now well into dusk, but only a faint glow 
spread from one of the lower halls. Yet this must be 
14 










VENUS ESSAYS THE TIGHT ROPE 15 


the house and Mr. Gellert had said he would expect 
her around eight. 

Her fears were relieved when, on ringing the bell, a 
young negro butler promptly responded and taking 
her suitcase, ushered her into the reception hall. 
Through the curtains at one side, she could see the 
faint warmth of a small fire. The man pulled aside 
the curtains and motioned her to enter. 

“Right in here, ma’am. Mr. Gellert is expectin’ 
you.” 

Helga stepped into the room. The man within had 
arisen from an armchair by the fire, and now stood 
facing her. Then he moved forward. In her first 
quick glance by the uncertain light, she saw that he 
was a man of about forty—that indeterminate age. 
His tall, rather lean body might have taken five years 
from that guess—his gray hair and the weary, sophis¬ 
ticated lines of his face might have added another 
five. 

“Mr. Gellert?” in a low voice. “I am Miss Petersen. 
My letter—you were interested in what I—sug¬ 
gested?” 

“Please sit down, Miss Petersen.” Miles Gellert 
drew up a chair, with a quick swing that would place 
its occupant in the firelight. He had caught a sur¬ 
prised breath on seeing the girl. The letter she had 
written, the mission on which she had come, had not 
prepared him for the gorgeous opulence of her dark 
beauty. She seated herself, and the impression of 
stormy sullenness, which he had at first received, 
changed as he noted the instant, quiet restfulness of 
the long limbs. This girl knew how to sit with¬ 
out fluttering. She wasn’t really dark, either. The 
firelight rolled in bronze waves across the line of 
hair under her hat, and struck at tawny lights in her 


16 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


eyes. It was her eyebrows and her skin—and her 
lips that had given him that first impression. Most 
blondes had coral lips, not scarlet. 

There was a long silence. Miles Gellert was at 
ease, but he rather wished his visitor were less so. 
From the proposition she had made, she could hardly 
be a gentlewoman—old-fashioned term!—and no such 
luscious curves were ever bred from thin blue blood, 
yet the girl had a poise that by rights she should not 
possess. Of course college did wonders. He was 
forced to begin the conversation after all, and this so 
annoyed him that he spoke rather abruptly. 

“From your letter, Miss Petersen, I see that you 
understand the situation rather better than those out¬ 
side the family. Let me see, what was it my cousin 
Marian told you in college about my nephew’s—er— 
misfortune?” 

Helga looked at him under straight brows. 

“Probably you are angry with her for—gossiping. 
But I assure you, that—that if you are not inter¬ 
ested—in—me, her remarks will go no farther. She 
doesn’t know, of course, that I have come to you. She 
told me that your nephew, Drake Gellert, came home 
in 1918 badly unnerved from gassing and shell-shock, 
and that after he had been home but two months, his 
young wife, whom he had married before going over, 
had been killed in an automobile accident, and that 
—and that the shock, together with his physical con¬ 
dition—unbalanced his mind.” Miles Gellert’s lips 
tightened painfully, but as he did not comment, she 
went on. 

“She also said that the ordinary male attendant 
whom you could obtain was seldom a man who would 
be the least bit companionable. Marian thought that 
what he really needed, and what you thought he 


VENUS ESSAYS THE TIGHT ROPE 17 


needed was an—attractive young woman who would 
be a constant companion, one who at the same time 
had no nerves herself and would not be upset by his 
mental troubles.” Miles Gellert leaned forward and 
threw away his cigar. Then he gave a short, dry 
laugh. 

“You put it very tactfully, Miss Petersen. I gather 
Marian neglected to tell you that on rare occasions 
it might mean a woman with a good deal of muscle as 
well as youth and looks. No—don’t interrupt or mis¬ 
understand me. My nephew is not violent in that 
sense of the word, and of course he has a male nurse at 
all times. But he takes strange fancies, sometimes 
eludes William—and his companion might have to 
persuade him forcibly at times to stay in the grounds.” 

“I am muscular,” said Helga calmly. She stripped 
the glove from one hand and spread out her long, 
smooth fingers, slightly spatulate, rather than artistic. 
She leaned forward and her hand circled Gellert’s wrist 
like a ring of white steel, yet so impersonally that it 
might have been a metal cuff. 

“Try to move it,” she suggested lazily. Gellert 
spread his hand, attempted a sudden movement of his 
whole arm—and saw the blood ebb from his own 
fingers, as her hand, seemingly immovable, forced his 
body back in a painful jerk. His black eyes darted a 
swift, strange look at her. Instantly her fingers re¬ 
laxed and she sat back in her chair, a slight flush stain¬ 
ing her cheeks. 

“Gad,” he said slowly, “you are strong!” 

“I—I was rather impertinent—but I wanted you to 
—see.” 

“I see all right,” with a grim laugh, “and you obvi¬ 
ously have no nerves.” 

“Will I do?” Helga shot the question, with the first 


18 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


suggestion of eagerness she had shown. Gellert rose 
from his chair and paced the room a moment without 
speaking. Then he swung about and faced her, and 
nervousness was in his voice. 

“Miss Petersen, I hardly know what to say. To tell 
the truth I did not expect a girl of quite your type to 
apply for such a position. And the position that is 
really open is rather different from what Marian led 
you to suspect-” Helga’s lips drooped. 

“In what way?” 

“What I am really looking for,” desperately, “is a 
girl who will be willing to marry my nephew, for a 
consideration!” 

“Marry—an insane man?” 

“You must understand—my nephew is far from the 
average person’s conception of an insane person. He 
is quiet, courteous, agreeable, but when these—phases 
—come upon him, he has no memory, sometimes not 
from hour to hour, and he occasionally has—delusions, 
that are disquieting, but not dangerous. His constant 
demand at those times is for his wife, and he is con¬ 
tent only when he imagines she is with him. We have 
had a succession of young nurses, some of them not 
desirable—not desirable at all. One or two have tried 

to marry him-” There was a humorous twist to 

Gellert’s lips as he spoke and Helga’s faint smile 
responded. 

“We want to find some one who will stay with him 
indefinitely, who will fit somewhat acceptably into our 
little household, some one who knows that her future 
well-being will depend on her care of him and her 
affection for him—he’s really a very likable chap, 
you know. Obviously, no one but a trained nurse 
could be with him at all hours—except a wife. 
And trained nurses, while some of them are mighty 



VENUS ESSAYS THE TIGHT ROPE 19 


attractive, are seldom versed in the minor accom¬ 
plishments. They have had little time for the graces 
of life. In other words, only a wife could be with 
him constantly, learn to be really fond of him, be 
a real companion to him. He does not need an 
actual nurse—William valets him, and at any rate, no 
doubt unjustly, I’ve become prejudiced against the 
average nurse.” He paused, and she spoke hesitantly, 
not meeting his eyes. 

“Do you mean—a real wife, Mr. Gellert?” 

Gellert shook his head, and his face was sad. 

“No, Miss Petersen. The kind of woman who 
would take on every obligation of that position for a 
man whom she has never seen and whom she knows 
beforehand would sometimes not remember her from 
hour to hour, is hardly the type of woman whom I 
could entrust with my nephew’s care nor one whom 7 
could admit to my household.” 

Helga’s lips parted. Her thoughts were confused, 
yet she marshaled them. Here was the real chance 
which she had longed for. Here was the opportunity 
to submerge legally her identity in an old New Eng¬ 
land name. Yet—mortgage her future? No. Such a 
tie would be infinitely worse as the years went on than 
the tie that irked her now. As though he read her 
thoughts, Gellert spoke hesitantly. 

“Perhaps you think we ask a good deal. But my 
nephew’s health is not good. Sometime his wife would 
have his name, which is a good one, and,” dryly, “his 
estate, which is a large one—running into a million 
and hardly touched. This establishment is my own, 
and, as long as my nephew lives, he will be under my 
care, and will be my responsibility, financially and 
otherwise.” 

The girl looked at him thoughtfully. 


20 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“You must be very fond of him.” 

“I am.” His lips trembled. “We meant a great 
deal to each other—once. It is part of my burden that 
he seems to dislike me now. They tell me this is 
always the case—that the unbalanced mind turns 
against those whom it has once cared for most. But 
—he tries not to show it. He is still a gentleman.” 

There was an awkward pause, and then Helga stood 
up, throwing back her magnificent shoulders in a way 
that made her seem even taller than her five feet seven. 

“Mr. Gellert, why not consider me! ” 

“You have a family?” 

“Yes.” 

“At all—prominent?” 

“In a way—very!” Her tone was dry. Gellert 
shrugged. 

“Then—impossible. No family would stand for it 
—you’d have no right to consider them so little.” 

“I have broken with my family, Mr. Gellert, for 
reasons which are good and not at all disreputable.” 

“I believe you—but in a matter like this I have no 
right to take your word. I must have references—a 
full record of your whole life, of the stock from which 
you come. Surely you must see that.” 

Helga pulled her coat about her rather wearily. 

“Then I must withdraw my application, Mr. Gellert. 
It was not money nor morbidity that made me suggest 
what I did. It was the desire, for perfectly decent 
reasons, to submerge completely my present identity. 
If I gave you that record, I would be defeating my own 
purposes. I can give you a doctor’s certificate—I can 
show you my bank account of ten thousand dollars, I 
can prove that my college record was good and that I 
left of my own accord. Beyond that I cannot go. 
Thank you for the interview, however.” 


VENUS ESSAYS THE TIGHT ROPE 21 


Gellert intercepted her with a perplexed look. 

“I can hardly understand, Miss Petersen, why you 
should be unwilling to allow me—in strict confidence 
of course—to inspect your entire record—if, as you 
say, it has been reputable.” 

The girl looked at him steadily. 

“That refusal, Mr. Gellert, seems to you one that 
only an adventuress would make. Well, it seems to me 
that only an adventuress—in the literal sense—would 
even consider your proposition. It seems to me that 
on both sides it would be a case of—of taking a pig in 
a poke. And I might add that to the average intelli¬ 
gent girl, whom I presume would be the only type that 
would interest you, your reasons for demanding a wife, 
rather than a paid companion for your nephew, would 
appear inadequate. Surely you could find some one 
satisfactory who would be willing, for a consideration, 
to take the position as companion permanently. 
You’ve had an unfortunate experience with nurses. 
Most of them are very fine women-” 

“Miss Petersen!” Gellert’s tone was haughty. “The 
doctor and I have threshed this out—we know what 
we’re talking about—it is not theory with us. We are 
not asking for plans, we are looking for a person who 
will fit into our plan. The girl whom my nephew will 
be with constantly, the girl who may be obliged to 
help William pull him through a restless night occa¬ 
sionally, must be his wife. She must not be hindered 
in her work by the conventions. I could put him in a 
sanatorium—and have none of these troubles myself. 
My whole object is that he shall be happy—in his 
lucid moments and — at other times. Do I make 
myself clear?” 

Helga was not convinced by his arguments though 
she recognized his sincerity. She studied him with a 


22 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


new interest. This particular type of man, suave, 
imperious, with the culture of maturity, had never 
entered her ken before. She felt and resented his 
subtle attitude of condescension, yet for the first time 
she was uncertain of herself. There were so many 
things, after all, to learn. Perhaps her little demon¬ 
stration of physical superiority had only—amused 
him? She flushed darkly at the thought, and rose. 

“I understand you, Mr. Gellert. Nevertheless, I 
cannot consent to telling you more than what I have 
agreed to. And I can see that would not satisfy you. 
From your point of view, you are right, of course.” 

She stood an instant, one foot on the fender. Gel¬ 
lert felt a reluctant admiration. He preferred a less 
obvious, more delicate charm, yet for the moment she 
was Juno—a stormy, overwhelming creature of curves 
and color—a Juno who, for all her regal proportions, 
held herself as lightly and with as secret a play of 
muscles as a ballet dancer. 

“Just a minute, Miss Petersen. This is something 
neither of us can decide offhand. Would you be will¬ 
ing to stay here a week—I have a housekeeper you 
know, as chaperone—and get a little acquainted with 
us? And we might get a little acquainted with you? 
And in the meantime, I could discuss it a little further 
with the family lawyer. In short, we could both look 
at the whole thing sanely and with deliberation.” 

Helga smiled, that winning smile of hers, with its 
flash of large, white teeth. It was the famous “Venus” 
smile that lightened completely her rather sullen 
features. 

“My suitcase is in the hall,” she said. 

A few minutes later, Miles Gellert watched her 
ascend the stairway behind the puffing and eminently 


VENUS ESSAYS THE TIGHT ROPE 23 


respectable little housekeeper. Then he returned to 
the fire and holding out his hands to the glow, visual¬ 
ized instead, slim, long, white fingers with the strength 
of steel. 

“Not quite a lady,” he mused. “Too damn poised, 
a little—theatrical, is it? And yet so nearly the real 
article that it would take a lazy dog like me to criti¬ 
cize it—and perhaps polish it!” 

As the housekeeper softly closed the door behind 
her, Helga tossed her hat on a chair and stood for a 
moment studying the room. It was rather characteris¬ 
tic of her that surroundings interested her far less than 
persons. So, from the library downstairs, she had 
carried only a confused impression of a rather splendid 
and gloomy room lined with heavy, and, no doubt, tire¬ 
some books. Helga was no reader. Readers are, 
contrary to the general idea, made and not born, and 
the girl’s life had held few hours that could be given 
to other than physical training. Her education had 
been mechanical, though thorough so far as it went, 
but it was Helga’s always vivid and vital interest in 
personalities, her quick, sometimes cruel intuitions, 
and for all that, a warm-hearted, ready generosity that 
had cut and polished some of the facets of her nature. 

Now, however, that she was alone, her alert gaze 
took in the room with a keen interest. The look be¬ 
came amused as she noticed the fragile delicacy of its 
appointments—the pale, lavender-taffeta hangings at 
the window and on the bed, the delicate gray of the 
dressing table and the deep-piled rug. She gave a 
mock groan as she noticed the heap of tiny embroi¬ 
dered pillows that strewed the gray wicker daybed. 
Then she switched on the light over the dressing table 
and studied the bronze and black and scarlet colors 
that flashed back her reflection in the mirror. 


24 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Venus, my dear, you look like a well-meaning 
lioness in Daniel’s boudoir!” But her look was com¬ 
placent as she slipped off her coat and stretched splen¬ 
did white arms in an immense yawn. 

“You’re too big, and too gorgeous and too highly 

colored to have any business in a room like this-” 

She slipped out of her dress thoughtfully, the realiza¬ 
tion flashing into her mind that this room had probably 
been that of Drake Gellert’s poor little wife—it 
suggested a picture of her—tiny, with a cloud of 
soft, black hair, and with bird-like little hands. A 
lavender room—that meant that her skin was very 
white—in all probability she used a faint rouge and 
a delicate, rare perfume. For the moment, Helga felt 
almost uncomfortable, as though the little creature lay 
over there on the daybed, and mocked her with a 
dainty, inscrutable smile. 

“My lord!” she groaned, “after knowing her , Mr. 
Gellert probably thought I looked like one of Rubens’ 
damsels, or a chromo come to life. And how in the 
world could even Drake Gellert fool himself that I 
was his—wife!” And with that, she faced two deci¬ 
sions that she would be forced to make. 

In the first place, should she give in and tell Mr. 
Gellert her whole history and her family history? It 
would be in confidence, of course, and it might not 
affect his decision to accept her as his nephew’s wife. 
Probably he only wished to make sure that morally 
and physically her stock was sound, and that there 
would be no scandals and divorce suits popping up 
later. Yes, he might accept her for his nephew. 
But his own estimate of her would be irrevocably set¬ 
tled. With a man of his type, her story would place 
her in a definite category—a distasteful and amusing 
one. How would she be improving her situation if she 



VENUS ESSAYS THE TIGHT ROPE 25 


knew that the one man in the household whose opin¬ 
ion mattered, looked on her as others had—as a freak, 
as a well-meaning, vulgar person with a taste for the 
limelight? She shuddered. It would be worse than 
what she had left, for she would beat helplessly against 
the stone wall of his prejudices—and yet always be 
surrounded by that wall. 

No! One decision was made—she would refuse 
to tell him. Second—suppose in spite of her refusal, 
he finally decided to let her become the wife of his 
nephew—suppose he despaired of a more desirable 
applicant? And it would only be through chance that 
he could find one—such a chance as had brought her 
here, on the gossip of a college friend. It was hardly 
a position that he could advertise, for the sake of the 
family. Well, suppose he finally decided in her favor? 
Should she accept? It meant money, to be sure, but 
the capital she now had looked ample to her. Most of 
all, of course, it meant a name. She had made in¬ 
quiries, thorough ones, about the Gellert family, before 
she had even written Miles Gellert, and she knew that 
the family was, or had been, a socially prominent one, 
that its traditions were old, and its reputation a solid 
rock which had never been assailed. If she married 
Drake Gellert, Venus Petersen would be forever 
buried, no matter what might happen, whether Drake 
died in a few years, or whether, for she faced this 
probability, he might live as long as she. In case of 
any possible trouble with Drake or Miles, they would 
be as interested as she—more so—in keeping her 
former identity from being discovered. 

Her eyes brightened as she superficially canvassed 
these advantages and found ready arguments. Poor 
Venus! Her life had never given her a great deal of 
time for searching self-analyses, perhaps fortunately. 


26 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


The one mental depression which had troubled her, she 
had decided to rid herself of radically—her name and 
reputation—and she had made the first moves with as 
much careless vigor as she had often been forced to 
display physically. She took count of actualities, not 
future probabilities, else she had not earned the right 
to be one of the Daring Petersens. From the day that 
the public press had enthusiastically given her the 
nickname “Venus,” to this moment, Helga had lived 
a carefree and impulsive life. She would accept, if 
Miles gave her the opportunity. 

And so, in this first serious, irrevocable step in her 
life, the girl made sure that the rope she wUs to run 
was strong and trustworthy and led to her ambition— 
nor realized that the chasm beneath it was a desper¬ 
ate one, should she make a false step. 


Ill 

Venus Encounters Lavender Shadows 



OOKING from a height, one perceived the 
old garden as stretching to infinity. Its 
farther reaches were veiled in a blue 
mist which suggested that the flowers 
marched on forever in an enchanted pro¬ 
cession, though invisible to mortal eye. Only the 
hedge of firs, which thrust indomitable black horns 
above the early morning fog, spoiled the illusion. Now 
the symmetrical little plots nearer the house seemed 
washed in brighter colors as the mist broke above them 
and moved on in detached scarves to the lower garden, 
leaving the scarlet and turquoise blossoms reluctantly 
and merging itself in the more belated bank of fog 
beneath the old trees at the foot of the slope. 

Helga caught her breath as she leaned over her little 
balcony and followed the course of early dawn in the 
garden. Her heart swelled with something that was 
perhaps spring, perhaps youth, perhaps sheer beauty, 
but inarticulate, even to herself, her lips merely parted 
on a sigh. An artist might have feverishly sought his 
easel, a composer his instrument, a poet his notebook; 
Helga, being merely a splendid young animal, paid the 
most supreme compliment of all to the morning, by 
hastily dressing to go out and meet it before its first 
bloom was brushed away. 

She felt uncertain of the many passages in the old 
house, so after a swift look from the balcony at the 
other windows, she whipped herself over the rail, tested 
the heavy ivy creeper with one hand, and a moment 
27 







28 THE SWINGING GODDESS 

later was on the ground with a cat-like softness of 
landing. Childishly she scuffed the wet grass with 
her feet, and over her shoulder watched the green 
trails spring from its silvered surface. Down past the 
upthrusting rows of flowers she hurried. Later in the 
day she could hang over them and hate herself for 
not knowing their names, but now she must catch 
the enchanted mist before it left the haven of the grove 
of pines and the fir hedge. Every step farther from 
the sleeping house gave her spirit a new exhilaration. 
On this path, surrounded by these trees, she could 
easily imagine herself isolated in an immense domain 
leagues away from all humanity. Now she paused, 
one hand on the grandfather pine. From the appear¬ 
ance of the trees close to her, she knew that she stood 
in the last stronghold of the mist, and that it swirled 
about her, making her one with the garden and the 
morning. 

There sounded the snapping of a branch near by, as 
though released from a powerful, careless hand. The 
girl stood rigid as a shadow grayed the whiteness of 
the fog. For a moment she gave way to that eerie sen¬ 
sation that seizes one when, on a dark, deserted street, 
approaching footfalls are heard. It is only the multi¬ 
plicity of people that saves one from supreme egotism; 
and always in a single encounter that is unexpected 
comes that premonition that one’s own destiny is to be 
affected. Perhaps the instinct is an authentic remnant 
of an age eons past—an age of dark, passionate, some¬ 
times fatal encounters in a swampy forest or on the 
hacked face of a cliff. 

Then Helga smiled at her own fantastic musings as 
she heard the thresh of feet through the swishing grass. 
From what Miles Gellert had told her the night before, 
she knew that the house beyond was the doctor’s and 


LAVENDER SHADOWS 


29 


that he was to breakfast with them and “look her 
over.” Her eyes twinkled a little as, for an instant, 
a disembodied male head seemed to appear. Only an 
instant, and then the mists parted, destroying the illu¬ 
sion, and the man was approaching her. 

“You looked exactly like the Cheshire Cat, then,” 
she remarked composedly, without stirring, “all grin 
and no body.” She knew she had the doctor at a dis¬ 
advantage, and she rather enjoyed it. A brief femi¬ 
nine revenge for the discomposure she had suffered 
under Miles Gellert’s eyes the night before! 

“I see you have a taste for the morning, too,” he 
began. His voice was gay, but he was obviously at a 
loss as his keen gray eyes ranged over her face. He 
was a younger man than she had expected to see, with 
a tall, heavily muscular frame, that in a shorter man 
would have seemed too stocky. But she liked the 
high, aggressive nose and jutting chin, and the thick, 
sternly cropped hair. Only the mouth, in repose, was 
full and a bit sullen. 

“I say, who are you?” he blurted, and then flushed 
to the roots of his brown hair. “I beg your pardon,” 
he went on hastily. 

Helga threw back her head and laughed. 

“Can’t you guess? The Gellert family acquired me 
last night—for a short time at least.” She ceased smil¬ 
ing. “Surely Mr. Gellert spoke to you about me?” 
she queried, and tried to decide whether she would be 
more embarrassed if he knew or if he didn’t—yet. 
For a moment he studied her and she read first sur¬ 
prise and then a curious something that mystified her 
in his eyes. 

“Ah, yes,” he said finally, and now his manner was 
completely quiet, “let’s sit down—shall we? Are you 
afraid of wet grass?” She shook her head mutely, and 


30 THE SWINGING GODDESS 

obediently sat down, her back to the bole of the great 
tree. 

“So—you’re the girl—Miles mentioned last night 
—well!” 

“I don’t wonder you’re surprised,” she said un¬ 
easily, and felt conscious of having said the wrong 
thing. He was plaiting three blades of grass and did 
not look at her. When he spoke his tone seemed to 
have sunk already into that heavy sullenness that she 
found later was characteristic. 

“I am surprised—rather,” deliberately, “yet I don’t 
know why I should be. Miles always has—good 
taste.” The girl shook herself impatiently. Every 
one around this place seemed to talk in a guarded, 
polite tone that left one unable to grasp the real mean¬ 
ing. She didn’t give a hang what the doctor thought 
—she was going to find out something definite. 

“Doctor—please be human and tell me what it’s all 
about. Am I the kind of a girl you and he want? Will 
you be fair to me? Mr. Gellert, very naturally, is 
considering—only his nephew. Won’t you consider 
me, please, and tell me if this—situation is all right, 
even if it is unusual? Is—is this man—insane?” 

“No.” The word was blunt, yet it carried convic¬ 
tion, as he went on. “Miles, in his—solicitude, exag¬ 
gerates matters. This is the situation: A young man 
with some physique and intelligence is gassed and sent 
home. Some tragedy happens, and he is troubled for 
days at a time thereafter, with the loss of memory. 
Then again it comes back—almost completely, but not 
quite—and it is that last elusive thread which he can 
never grasp which haunts him and makes a complete 
recovery impossible—at present.” 

“But you—you and Mr. Gellert can tell him every¬ 
thing,” Helga protested. The man shook his head. 


LAVENDER SHADOWS 


31 


“No,” he said heavily, “we can’t. It is something 
we don’t know—it is something that he undoubtedly 
will shrink from when he remembers —if he remem¬ 
bers.” 

“Perhaps his subconscious mind doesn’t want to 
remember,” Helga remarked shrewdly, “and so it hides 
it from his conscious mind all the time. And—and 
when he gets too near to that secret, his subconscious 
mind protects it by making him have a complete lapse 
for a period.” The man darted a keen glance at her. 

“That’s a clever theory,” he said slowly, “perhaps 
—who knows?—it’s true. But-” 

“Oh, it’s not an original idea,” interrupted the girl 
hastily. “I seldom have them,” she commented with a 
complete lack of humor, and the man smiled lazily, 
“but in college we had a lot of funny stuff like that in 
psychology and I had to read it. Do you read much?” 
she ended abruptly. 

“Not much,” frankly, “there are lots jollier things 
to do.” 

“Same here. I’m awfully glad to find some one 
else who is an outcast. When I do read, I invariably 
pick up something like Wild Geese’ or ‘The Naked 
Man.’ Of course even I can dimly sense that they’re 
literature—but—but why has every one such a pas¬ 
sion for returning to the soil nowadays? I suppose 
I’m mid-Victorian and a romanticist, but isn’t anything 
real but perspiration?” 

The man threw back his head and laughed. 

“Matter of fact, I read those, too, and I think I 
know what you mean.” 

“Even if heroines don’t scent their linen with lav¬ 
ender nowadays, they don’t have to eat onions,” the 
girl argued. “Of course I’m exaggerating—but so do 
a lot of books of that type, whether they’re earnest 
\ 



32 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


and epic, or not. Sometimes I think,” she went on 
hesitantly, “that the writers of the risque, from Cham¬ 
bers up to today, have struck bottom in their particu¬ 
lar type. F. Scott Fitzgerald hit a gold mine, but he’s 
had so many imitators that even that has petered 
out—playing up the jazz age, I mean.” 

The man interrupted her enthusiastically. 

“And so now they have to feed our jaded tastes 
riper stuffs. If your setting’s a boudoir or a taxi-cab, 
the censors get you. But if your hero has a walrus 
moustache, and your heroine has fat legs—” 

“—and they make love while feeding the pigs—” 

“—then it becomes a tremendous epic of the West 
or the Middle West—” 

“—or a heart-shaking study of the Norwegian peas¬ 
antry in their struggle upwards from the earth. But 
the author never gives us the upwards—only the 
earth.” Helga laughed joyously as they completed 
their absurd litany. Then she glanced at her watch. 

“Gracious, I had no idea it was so late. I’ll have 
to hustle and get dressed again for breakfast. I just 
mobbed my hair up any old way.” 

He looked soberly at the copper mass she indicated. 

“It looks very pretty—how does it happen you 
escaped a bob?” 

“I’m vain about it,” Helga confessed simply, “and 
that’s the one and only reason. There have been lots 
of times when it would have been more convenient 
bobbed. Please excuse me if I run back ahead of 
you. I’ll see you at breakfast. You were coming 
over, weren’t you?” 

The man had risen and now stood slashing at his 
hand with the whip of braided grass. He did not look 
up. 

“Yes, I will be at breakfast,” he answered after an 


LAVENDER SHADOWS 


33 


appreciable pause, and the girl with a backward smile 
ran through the garden to the house. This time she 
slowed down and entered it sedately through its now 
open front door. 

The man watched her for a moment and then 
slowly followed her flying footsteps. Scarlet and 
brass and aquamarine the flowerbeds flaunted now to 
the sun, but it seemed that he was reluctant to leave 
the lavender shadows of early morning behind him. 

Miles Gellert intercepted Helga at the door. Clad 
in gray flannels, his lean figure carried the same sug¬ 
gestion of leisured assurance that had fascinated her 
before. She was suddenly conscious now, not of the 
beauty of her hair, but of its blowsiness. 

“Up early,” he smiled. “I’ll have Morton rush 
breakfast. Want to look at the paper?” 

She shook her head confusedly. 

“I’ve just been for a morning run,” she replied. 
‘Til have to go and freshen up a bit.” 

“Don’t bother,” he detained her, “you look quite 
rosy and charming. Besides I’m hungry. To be 
honest, I’m not given to these early hours, but the 
Doc promised to breakfast with us and he’s leaving 
for New York this morning for a few days.” Helga 
preceded him into the breakfast room, which, she dis¬ 
covered, opened out of one end of the library and 
gave on the garden. In winter it would be glassed 
in, but now it was charmingly screened only by the 
riotous ramblers and woodbine. It was furnished in 
the same gray and lavender tones that had been used 
in the girl’s bedroom, and Helga realized that no man’s 
plan had been perfected in the delicate wicker chairs, 
the swinging wicker flower baskets and vases. 

“How perfectly lovely,” she remarked simply as she 
settled herself on the low divan. “I can’t even imagine 


34 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


that I’m really in the midst of a good-sized town.” 

“I hope you can’t.” Miles dropped his paper and 
stood looking down at her. “The place is old-fashioned 
of course, but the main aim has been accomplished 
—seclusion.” 

“Don’t you like people?” she flashed. He shook his 
head, but his eyes twinkled. 

“Not much. I can stand a select few, but the 
general mob of busybodies and hangers-about tire 
me. To tell the truth, of late we have been very 
quiet here. Owing to my nephew’s condition we have 
practically no callers—we have discouraged them. I 
hope you won’t be lonely. Of course, if we decide to 
carry our plan through, that will be somewhat changed. 
We must get you out and have you meet some of the 
people about here. They are really good souls, not 
too snobbish, and they will go out of their way to be 
nice to you.” 

“Would that be difficult?” Then she bit her lip 
and went on quickly, “Am I—is your nephew to be 
at breakfast?” Miles looked rather surprised and 
then he shook his head. 

“He seldom eats with me—with us,” he responded, 
“but you will be properly introduced to each other 
this morning. I want you to talk to the Doctor first.” 
Helga looked past him with a faint flush. 

“Here he is now.” 

Miles swung around, surveyed the man who was 
approaching the shallow brick steps, and then threw 
the girl a frowning, curious look. 

“I did not know you had met each other!” briefly, 
and then rather formally, “Miss Petersen, may I pre¬ 
sent my nephew—Drake Gellert.” Helga started up 
and then sank back into her 9eat, her eyes wide as her 
hand fell helplessly into the grip of the man with 


LAVENDER SHADOWS 


35 


whom she had talked before breakfast. In a frenzied 
leap her mind ran over every word of that interview, 
and then her lips whitened and her glance fell. She 
felt a stony fury at the mistake she had made and at 
the man who had allowed her to persist in it. Then 
she looked up at him. 

“How do you do, Mr. Gellert,” she said deliberately. 
“It appears I was under a misapprehension a little 
while ago.” She turned to Miles. “I met your nephew 
in the garden and talked to him,” she went on steadily. 
“I thought he was the Doctor—and he did not cor¬ 
rect my mistake.” Miles frowned—heavily. 

“That was hardly the thing for you to do, old chap, 
was it?” Drake threw himself into one of the chairs, 
his eyes fixed on the floor. 

“Undoubtedly not, but,” he went on with an ugly 
laugh, “I’m not a gentleman any more. I’m just a 
poor cuss in a private home for the feeble-minded.” 

“Drake!” Miles’ voice had instantly softened, and 
he threw an imploring look at the girl. Helga was quick 
at reading it and she cursed her impetuous speech. It 
was a poor start. She managed a light laugh. 

“I don’t blame you, Mr. Gellert,” she went on mer¬ 
rily. “I’ve been guilty of the same thing myself. It’s 
lots of fun, sometimes, to lead some one on that way, 
though it’s apt to boomerang. I hope I didn’t say 
anything I shouldn’t have?” She was appealing to him 
now to protect her indiscreet remarks from Miles. He 
did not look up, but his voice when he spoke told her 
she had taken the right tack. 

“Not a thing you shouldn’t—though it would have 
served me right if you had. Hello—here’s the old 
Doc.” He sprang up and ran down the steps to meet 
his physician in a spontaneous way that spoke of a 
great friendship between them. Helga could not help 


36 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


but compare his attitude with the cool formality with 
which he had greeted his uncle. She slid a glance at 
the latter, and was touched by the wistfulness of his 
face as he watched his nephew. It was plain that he 
worshipped Drake—and that he did not understand 
him. How easy it would have been for Drake to 
throw him a few crumbs of friendship in return for 
what the older man was doing for him—even if his 
way of doing it was blundering! For a moment Helga 
almost disliked the man who had so attracted her 
in the garden. He had attracted her because he had 
been more nearly of her generation, because his whole 
physique and animal spirits had appealed to the youth 
in her, but now, comparing him to his uncle, Drake 
seemed boorish, sullen, ill at ease—lacking totally the 
fine suavity of Miles Gellert. The latter had waited 
a moment by the steps, and then, seeing that the 
greetings of the other two men were becoming pro¬ 
longed, he seated himself by Helga, and turned tired 
eyes upon her. 

“You see?” he asked quietly. “Drake does not— 
care for me.” 

“It’s your imagination,” the girl lied generously, 
“he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would 
enthuse over any one. He has a great deal of vitality, 
but one gets the impression that it’s—suppressed.” 
Miles nodded moodily. 

“His illness has changed his temperament. It’s as 
though he didn’t give a damn for anything or any¬ 
body. Can’t even get him to take the interest in 
sports that he used to. Did you find him—unusual 
any way in your talk this morning?” Helga shook 
her head. 

“Not at all. I bumped into him and half-way intro¬ 
duced myself. I thought he was the Doctor, you know, 


LAVENDER SHADOWS 


37 


and we just got to talking about books and things. 
I was paralysed when I found out who he really was. 
Are you sure that more can’t be done for him? And, 
Mr. Gellert,” she went on with a worried little frown, 
“the plan you had, after seeing him, seems almost 
impossible. It’s one thing to jump into an unusual situ¬ 
ation with a person who is mentally—dependent, but 
he—why, I can’t imagine it.” Gellert was moody. 

“You have only seen one phase of his mental life 
—the normal. The others will come, damn them— 
and then you will see what we are up against. Hello, 
Doc, glad to see you. If I’d had to look at that 
coffee pot much longer I would have forgotten my 
manners. Miss Petersen, Dr. Mallow.” 

Helga had arisen to take her seat at the breakfast 
table, but now she paused. Dr. Mallow’s brown, shaggy 
friendliness, like that of a blundering puppy, moved 
her irresistibly to her wide, slow smile, and she found 
herself returning his greeting with a warmth that 
surprised herself. A man a little past middle age, there 
was little remarkable about him except a rather breath¬ 
less suggestion that he had struggled into his clothes 
in the teeth of a rough gale, and that his upstanding, 
grizzled hair had not yet recovered from the same 
wind. 

“So this is Miss Petersen,” he exclaimed heartily. 
“Well, how do you like being the only female in a 
harem of men?” 

“It’s very interesting,” Helga smiled, “though I 
think after a time I should have to find some one of 
my own sex to gabble to occasionally.” The Doctor 
waved his hand largely. 

“Gabble to us, all you want,” he said generously. 
“Except professionally, there’s nothing I love like 
dissecting my friends!” 


38 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“I can’t quite imagine you in the role of he-gossip,” 
Helga said demurely as she poured the coffee. “You 
should be sleek and slick-” 

“Like Miles here?” and then, seeing her distressed 
blush, he repented and went on. “As a matter of 
fact, old Miles is the original clam—didn’t even find 
out until yesterday that he was runner-up in the golf 
tournament at the Braeburn.” 

Drake looked up with the first flash of interest he 
had exhibited in the last few minutes. 

“That so, Miles? Good stuff. Did you crack 
eighty?” 

“Seventy-six,” Miles answered quietly, but his eyes 
had brightened at Drake’s question. 

The conversation wandered off into the field of golf, 
a subject on which Helga could speak intelligently if 
not authoritatively, and then, at a sign from Miles, 
she pushed back her chair. 

“If you will excuse us,” the latter said to her lightly, 
“I will carry Drake off for a little business conference 
and leave you to get acquainted with the Doctor.” 

As the two men left the porch, the Doctor motioned 
her to a seat on the couch and took a place beside her. 
There was a silence—one in which the girl felt com¬ 
pletely at ease. Through the green tracery of vines 
her eyes wandered idly down the reaches of the gar¬ 
den. Then she turned and saw that the Doctor was 
looking at her. His deep brown eyes were keen now, 
if still kindly, and his mouth was set into serious 
lines. 

“And now, Miss Petersen,” he said in a low voice, 
“let us have a real talk.” 



IV 

Frankie 


WILL come right to the point. I spoke 
with Miles last evening and gathered that 
you understand what he wants and why 

he wants it-” Helga made a little 

dissenting gesture, but he went on without 
seeing it. “He tells me that you are willing to con¬ 
sider the plan, for reasons of your own—and, here we 
come to the point, those reasons you are not willing to 
give, nor are you willing to take us completely into 
your confidence as to your family. After having 
thought it over during the night, do you still persist 
in refusing to do so?” 

“Yes, Doctor. As I promisedJast night, you shall 
have every reasonable assurance that I am of normal 
intelligence, not poverty-stricken, and that I am 
healthy.” 

“Are you or have you been married?” The question 
came like the crack of a whip. Helga looked him 
steadily in the eyes. 

“No—and there is nothing of that sort which I am 
hiding, no divorces and nothing—unsavory which could 
ever come up.” 

“I believe you,” shortly, “but pardon me, I can’t 
understand why such a perfect young animal as you 
seem to be should ever want to project herself into 
such an—erotic situation.” Helga laughed spon¬ 
taneously. 

“In other words, any one who seems possible will 
be impossible simply because she is willing to do 
what you want!” He answered her ruefully. 

39 











40 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Something like that—yes. However the situa¬ 
tion^ here and we, Miles and I, are trying to improve 
it. He has told you something of our difficulties. It 
is largely the question of finding some one companion¬ 
able who can be on hand all the time—and to arrange 
it conventionally. The average young chap who would 
do, would be too ambitious to take on that sort of a 
job, so it’s got to be a woman.” 

His last remark had been tactless, but Helga brushed 
it aside and questioned another portion of his state¬ 
ment. 

“I thought,” she said slowly, “that it must be a 
woman because—in his bad spells—he demands his 
wife.” 

“Well, those spells are very irregular and sometimes 
spaced at long intervals,” the Doctor replied, “and in 
his right state, as you’ve seen him today, he’s the last 
man to demand female coddling. Excuse me, I didn’t 
mean to slam your sex—I love ’em all,” he went on 
hastily. “I just didn’t want you to think that Drake 
was normally that kind of a damn fool. There, I’ve 
put my foot in it again,” he frowned contritely. “I’m 
an old bachelor, you know, Miss Petersen, and you 
mustn’t mind if I have as much tact as a whale has 
curls.” Helga’s eyes twinkled at him. 

“I don’t mind,” she laughed. “It’s refreshing to find 
some one who is—natural. And somehow what you 
have just said relieves me a bit. Mr. Gellert was so 
mysterious last night. But the way you put it, it’s 
just an arrangement for a companion whom Mr. Drake 
Gellert can count on at any time and all the time— 
and a marriage to keep people from talking.” 

“That’s just it,” the Doctor assured her. “I never 
thought to get mixed up in any of these dime novel 
situations, but it isn’t really that. There’s no question 


FRANKIE 


41 


of unrequited love, on one side or the other. Purely 
a business arrangement. To be perfectly honest, your 
very type simplifies that. Drake’s wife, whom he 
loved devotedly, was as different from you as the 
moon from—the sun. I think you’d make a tremen¬ 
dous pal for him—with no damn foolishness. Mind 
you, I couldn’t honestly approve of a young girl like 
yourself with her life ahead of her, putting herself 
into the position of a married spinster, but after all, 
I’m no one to talk!” 

“Mr. Gellert hinted that his nephew’s health was 
poor,” the girl ventured timidly, “it seems impossible 
—he looks like a—gladiator.” 

“Gellert exaggerates things as far as Drake is con¬ 
cerned,” the Doctor said carelessly. “As you see, he 
is mad about him and always imagines he’s getting 
worse. He was the same when Drake was in college. 
Fussing like an old hen, which is not like him in other 
things. I’ll admit the boy’s lungs aren’t in the con¬ 
dition I’d like to see them, but it’s nothing serious. 
What is more serious is the way he’s letting that 
splendid body of his run to seed. If you’re anything 
of a sportswoman, you can help wonderfully there. 
You see, he doesn’t care to play with Miles—and he’s 
practically cut himself off from all his friends—afraid 
to let them find out his condition. Well, perhaps this 
is a sufficiently long first session. Thank you for 
letting me talk to you. When I come back from New 
York next week, perhaps we shall all come to a more 
definite understanding. In the meantime,” they stood 
up and now he took her hand in both his great brown 
paws, “in the meantime, you’d better decide to go 
back home—and make up that spat with your young 
man! You are a very beautiful girl, my dear,” his 
serious manner robbed his words of all offence, “with a 


42 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


great, big, beautiful body built to carry on your kind. 
Don’t take a leap into the dark like this. Let some 
other girl with a head full of books and no complexion 
do it. I’m afraid you’ll be sorry. Miles Gellert is 
my friend and I told him I’d say what I damn wanted 
to when I saw you. So I’ll say that you’re making 
a mistake. Drake is a blundering young animal carry¬ 
ing a hidden wound that he can’t locate and which 
makes him ugly a good deal of the time. Miles— 
well, Miles is the salt of the earth—but he’s apt to 
make you uncomfortable at times with his precision 
and his intellect. If I had a daughter like you I’d 
want to see her married to a real man in a real way 
—and no damned nonsense about it either,” he roared 
suddenly, “an armful of children the first five years, 
d’ye hear me?—a blinking armful the first five years!” 

Helga’s blush was scorching, but she smiled into his 
eyes as she gently released her hand. Her eyes were 
shining. 

“Thank you, Doctor, for being interested—in me,” 
she said almost inaudibly, “but—I think I’ll go ahead 
with it if I get the chance. It will help a lot, though, 
to feel I have—a real friend,” she finished a little 
wistfully. 

“Righto.” The Doctor was overcome with sudden 
embarrassment and, pulling out a huge, rather grimy 
handkerchief, he mopped his forehead. “I’ll run in 
and have a word with Miles, if you’ll excuse me, and 
then I must rush for my train. I will see you next 
week.” He blundered in through the open French 
window and, a few minutes later, the girl heard his 
big voice booming out, as though from the bridge of a 
vessel. 

“. . . and let her do what she damn pleases—no 
persuasion, mind . . . preposterous—first real figure 


FRANKIE 


43 


I’ve seen since looking like a slat came into style 
. . . and don’t get the boy into a corner either—let 
him think he did the deciding . . . main thing is to 
get ’em to like each other—who knows?” There was a 
tremendous guffaw that was hurriedly drenched by a 
low, repressed comment from Miles which came like a 
slap of cold water. The girl paused by the brick steps, 
her face burning. “Who knows?” Ah, but she did 
know not* why she had become desperately anxious to 
stay on their terms—and Drake played no part in that 
reckoning. It was the cool, well-bred voice whose 
words she could not distinguish which held her mo¬ 
tionless there, hating her own flamboyant beauty. Her 
ambition yesterday had been to shed her identity. 
Now added to that was the determination to mould 
the crudities of her own character—crudities of which 
she had been blissfully unconscious so few hours ago. 
She would make Miles Gellert not only like her but 
admire her—and in this determination was no hint of 
the amorous conquest on which many a girl of her 
impulse might have been bent. Helga had been sati¬ 
ated, as few are, by admiration of her beauty alone. 
Nov/ she wailed—as she thought—after the moon. 
Miles Gellert should like her, should come to like her, 
for her poise, and for her intellect. To this end she 
gladly dedicated her scarlet lips, her full white throat 
and splendid body to sterility. The younger Miss 
Childs, who lived in the huge stone house farther up 
the hill, and whose sacred memory was the afternoon 
she had discussed New Poetry with Miles Gellert (and 
had backed him into an intellectual corner), would 
have shrugged her angular shoulders and allowed her 
lips to part on a thin smile if she could have read 
Helga’s thoughts. 

“Some one whose mind will act as a stone wall for 


44 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


their own ideas to bounce back from—some one whose 
eyes will widen in adoration and who will exhibit by 
parted lips an enthralled interest in politics—that’s 
what these brainy men want,” she mused bitterly as 
she had watched his departure down the avenue of 
poplars. “Ah, Miles, Miles—when we were fifteen, 
why did I help you with your mathematics!” 

“Do you swim, Miss Petersen?” Drake’s voice broke 
into the girl’s reverie. As she swung about, he went 
on diffidently. “It’s about the only thing I care for— 
now. One doesn’t need to meet a lot of people. Doc 
tells me the lake is quite warm now and that the rush 
of the hoi polloi hasn’t begun yet. Would you care to 
go with—with William and me?” 

“I’d adore it,” the girl said instantly, “but,” rue¬ 
fully, “I haven’t any suit. You see my trunk is still 
in the South Station and I’ve just decided to telephone 
for it.” 

“It would take time if we bought a suit,” he said 
thoughtfully, “and I’d like to get off while the morn¬ 
ing’s young. I’m not usually up so early. I tell you 
what,” his face lighted; “if you wouldn’t mind wearing 
some one else’s suit I can get Doc’s niece to lend you 
hers. If she’s got two, we can get her to go along.” 
Helga’s face must have shown her surprise, for he went 
on almost eagerly. 

“Frankie—her real name’s Frances, of course—is 
about the only one outside the family I ever see—and 
she’s not home often. She’s always trotting about the 
world—paints, you know, ripping things, too. You’ll 
like her. She’s a tiny edition of the Doc, so you 
mustn’t mind if she’s rather offhand. Shall I go tele¬ 
phone her? Doc said she got back last night.” 
Helga was disappointed. She had wanted to further 
her acquaintance with Drake, and this addition to the 


FRANKIE 


45 


party was rather apt to push her to the outside circle. 
Moreover it had been an ordeal to meet even three 
strange personalities under this situation, and now she 
had hardly caught her breath before another was to 
be projected into it. 

“It would be fine,” she said hesitantly, then she 
lifted honest eyes. “I was just wondering how you 
would—explain—me.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said carelessly, “we always 
have had some nurse or other around. Besides, 
Frankie doesn’t ask questions. Her life’s too full for 
her to be nosey.” Helga winced perceptibly, but if he 
was sorry for his bluntness, he did not show it. She 
perceived that here was a man whose savage ego took 
no account of apologies or soft speeches. If his words 
bruised, so was he bruised all the time. Why should 
he give a damn? Accept him or ignore him—he went 
his way within the pitiable confines of his little world. 
At least so it seemed to the girl, and for a moment 
cold fingers seemed to squeeze her heart as in a 
flash the realization of what it would mean to be tied 
to him for a lifetime came to her. That passed—and 
she gave him a cool nod. 

“Telephone her,” she said. “Do we dress here? 
Then will you have William bring the suit to my 
room?” 

A half hour later she strapped the white canvas belt 
around her waist and stood looking at her image in 
the mirror with an absent-minded approval. The suit 
was a brilliant green jersey affair and it had obviously 
been intended for a shorter and smaller person, so that 
the girl’s white thighs gleamed in rather startling gen¬ 
erosity from the scant trunks. Her waist and hips 
were slender, trained to the last ounce of necessary 
flesh, so that belt clasped easily, and merely accentu- 


46 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


ated the splendid upspring of full bust, backward 
flung shoulders. She stepped into black slippers and 
flung around her the grass-green water cloak that had 
been brought with the suit. Then she opened the door 
as Drake whistled from the foot of the stairs. 

“All set? Frankie’s waiting outside in her car. Doc 
says we may leave William at home this time.” He 
made a grimace. Helga walked steadily, but with fast¬ 
beating heart to the little roadster that stood under the 
porte-cochere. Here was the real ordeal—the meeting 
of a woman of this world. 

Frankie flung the door open and then crouched back 
behind the steering-wheel, looking even smaller than 
she had seemed at first sight. 

“Great to meet you, Miss Petersen,” she said gaily. 
“Crowd in here beside me. If Drake hasn’t enough 
room, he can just ride on the running board. Want 
to light a cigarette before I start?” Helga shook her 
head confusedly and murmured what she felt to be 
stammering replies. If Peter Pan had materialized 
she could have been hardly more surprised. Great 
brown eyes gleaming out at her from beneath a rak¬ 
ishly crushed felt hat—little, tough, brown hands grip¬ 
ping the steering wheel, a brown, dimpled, irregular 
face that fooled you into thinking it was pretty by the 
wrinkles of laughter around the lips and eyes—that 
was Frankie Mallow, as Helga first saw her. 

“It’s so early in the season, I feel positively debo¬ 
nair in a swimming suit, don’t you, Miss Petersen? If 
it’s too darn cold I shan’t go in. I’ll sit on the bank 
and shriek over the way Drake lets himself into the 
water, inch by inch. Imagine that great hulk being 
cold —he’s getting to be a lazy devil and needs to be 
chased around with a stick to keep his circulation 
going, eh, what, old dear?” 


FRANKIE 


47 


“Lazy yourself/’ Drake retorted defensively, “who’s 
the person who went to sleep at her own coming out 
party?” 

“That was years and years ago—don’t drag it up. I 
haven’t had a good sleep since. I kept eating ice cream 
after ice cream with different boys, Miss Petersen—in 
those days we didn’t have booze at children’s parties— 
and after a while I felt most monstrous queer and 
simply had to lie down. They couldn’t find me until 
after the last guest had gone home. By the way, 
excuse me for flying from the subject, but do you ever 
pose, Miss Petersen?” 

“You mean as a model?” Helga replied equably. 
“No.” She lied deliberately. To have admitted it 
would have meant Frankie’s eager, professional inter¬ 
est in the when and where. 

“Well, maybe I shall snatch you myself sometime,” 
Frankie went on. “Now, Drake, stop your noisy chat¬ 
ter while I negotiate this traffic. The officer on that 
corner always distracts me. I lean out to bask in his 
smile and just narrowly miss destruction.” 

But after the corner was passed the silence persisted 
and all three seemed content to enjoy the flying 
scenery without comment. Helga stole occasional 
glances at the wee creature beside her and once sur¬ 
prised the brown eyes carefully scrutinizing her. 
Those eyes did not avert themselves. They merely 
widened into a genial smile and then slid carelessly 
back to the road. Helga liked Frankie—and resented 
the fact, for she felt that she herself was being 
appraised deliberately. The lake was soon reached, 
and avoiding the common bathing beach, Frankie left 
the car at the other end, and then parted the under¬ 
brush to triumphantly point out a little-used path. 

“Hist!” she proclaimed, “don’t ever dare give away 


48 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


my secret. We don’t want banana peels and bottles 
profaning this. Isn’t that view gorgeous?” Glimpsed 
through the underbrush was the melted and submerged 
blue of sky and water. 

“Of course it’s really rather ordinary,” Frankie ad¬ 
mitted, as she ran on ahead of them, “but a morning 
like this makes everything look so new and nicely 
groomed, don’t you think? As though all the little 
bushes had washed their hands before the sun came 
out. Catch me if you can.” She loped off—that was 
the only word Helga could think of—and the two fol¬ 
lowed her, ending in a mad helter-skelter of flying peb¬ 
bles at the lips of the beach. 

“Chase me, and I’ll run slow,” Frankie pleaded, 
cantering around Drake languishingly. He shook his 
heavy shoulders. 

“Don’t be an ass, Frankie,” he admonished, and 
added something that Helga did not hear. The latter 
stood there watching them for a moment and then 
threw off the cloak and bound her hair into the heavy 
cap. At least she could swim. She waded into the 
water, then plunged in and swam with sure, strong 
strokes out toward the raft. Frankie had turned and 
was watching her. Then she glanced curiously at 
Drake. 

“What a superb figure,” she half gasped. “A Viking 
daughter! Where did she get that walk—like a ballet 
dancer! Drake, you must get her to pose for me. 
Did you see those arms and legs and shoulders? Real 
muscles, by heck, on a girl—and as sweetly hidden as 
possible.” 

“Spare my blushes,” said Drake lazily, stretching 
his arms. Frankie shrugged impatiently. 

“You men make me tired. Can’t you admire a girl 
without furtive glances and a feeling of guilt? It 


FRANKIE 


49 


takes a woman to really appreciate the fact when she 
sees one of her sex properly jointed and padded.” 

“I wasn’t furtive,” Drake said indignantly. “Damn 
it, can’t any one kid but you, Frankie?” Then he 
he went on sullenly, “You know how much women 
interest me—now, Frankie.” The girl held out con¬ 
trite hands. 

“Sorry, old dear. I was merely slamming your sex 
and taking it out on the person nearest—my little way, 
you know. Come on, egg beater, and let’s churn out 
to your little friend. She’ll feel rather out of it.” 

Helga had drawn herself up on the raft and now 
stood watching the two approach her. Little as she 
had seen of either, the way in which they swam was 
rather characteristic—Frankie in quick, threshing 
strokes, blowing water like a miniature whale, Drake 
moving almost invisibly beside her, his under-water 
stroke enabling him with no show of effort to keep at 
her side. Helga had been looking eagerly at the really 
good diving board, but she had vowed she would do 
nothing but follow their lead. 

Frankie sprang up on the raft and instantly ran up 
the diving board and stood dancing a jig on its peri¬ 
lously slippery tip. 

“Gosh, the water looks a thousand miles away— 
well, here goes—put tiger lilies on my breast.” Her 
take-off was good. But she straightened convulsively 
as she hit the water with the flat of her body. Drake 
and Helga groaned in sympathy as she went under, and 
then laughed as her brown little face reappeared grim¬ 
acing. 

“Gawd—my stummick,” she moaned plaintively, 
and added, “give me golf any day—I thought I was 
diving in a bunker.” 

But she persisted in the diving. It was not until 


50 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


each of them had reached the point of attempting 
somersaults that Helga, after narrowly watching them, 
ran up on the board. In the water as both of them 
were, they turned to watch her. She made what was 
apparently an ordinary take-off, her body painting a 
green and white wing on the air, but as she touched the 
water, instead of disappearing, she slid on, skimming 
its surface in an apparently endless trail, as though she 
were being propelled, face down, by an invisible power. 
Slowly her plunge came to an end. She turned and 
swam back toward the raft. Drake turned an awed 
face toward Frankie. 

“Do you realize that girl plunged darn near seventy- 
five feet?” Frankie looked properly impressed. 

“Don’t know much about swimming,” she confessed, 
“but it was a pretty sight—do some more, Miss Peter¬ 
sen,” she urged. “Drake says that’s big-time stuff.” 
Helga flushed with annoyance at herself. 

“It’s just ordinary plunging,” she said apologeti¬ 
cally. “I used to be able to do double somersaults and 
other stuff like that, but I haven’t practised for some 
time.” She spoke honestly, not realizing that to the 
average person a break of three weeks between any 
exercise would hardly be termed a long time. Even 
Drake’s listlessness vanished as she postured a brief 
moment on the diving board, then performed two com¬ 
plete, flashing turns in the air before her body straight¬ 
ened and cleft the water. 

“Gosh, she’s good, isn’t she?” he queried of Frankie. 
“Too bad brains don’t go with that body.” 

“You mean experience and—that blasted thing we 
call culture, don’t you, old dear?” Frankie responded. 
“Don’t kid yourself—the girl has perceptions and 
character. You know what really fools you, don’t 
you? She’s got a very real simplicity—a kind of driv- 


FRANKIE 


51 


ing reality. You feel it from the moment you meet 
her. That girl has worked hard—at something, all 
her life and hasn’t had much time for the slangy banter 
our bunch goes in for. It’s a code—and she hasn’t 
caught on to it yet. When she does—it won’t change 
her much—she is ruthless and real—and she’ll take 
everything hard.” 

Drake pretended to mop his brow. 

“Frankie,” he complained, “can’t you ever mention 
a person without tearing him apart? Hey there!” he 
shouted, for Helga had been under water an amazing 
length of time, “that’s enough.” The girl grasped the 
side of the swimming board and swayed there, water 
streaming over flushed cheeks. 

“Are you tired?” she asked incredulously. 

“We’ve been in for nearly three-quarters of an 
hour.” The man was curt. “You’ve done enough.” 

“But,” she began dimpling, and then halted at a 
look at his face. 

“Very well,” she and Frankie chimed in meekly and 
turning, they swam for shore. 

On the ride back, Helga sat silent—and glowing. 
For the first time she was unconscious of her com¬ 
panions. The wet strands of hair beneath her cap, the 
deep, slow breath that swelled her breast, her very 
flesh tingled with her satisfaction of the constant 
demand that had always been made on her muscles. 
Dimly, as she neared home, she was aware that she 
had been like a drunkard, deprived for a long period. 
She loved and hated for a flash the exacting perfection 
of her body. 

“I shall have to take up golf or tennis quickly,” she 
thought almost desperately, “or I’ll crock—like mother 
did.” If her temperament had been more febrile, 
neurotic—she might have realized then that she was 


52 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


carelessly risking a possession for which nine out of 
ten of her acquaintances would have exchanged wealth. 

The home drive was reached and Frankie, after re¬ 
fusing an invitation to lunch, waved a gay good-by. 

“Going to New York to join Uncle tomorrow,” she 
waved. “See you when I get back—use my suit, Miss 
Petersen.” 

“Are you tired?” asked Helga of Drake as they 
mounted the steps. She brought the remark out tri¬ 
umphantly. It was a real accomplishment for her to 
remember that any one might be ill. Privately, she 
fought against the feeling that all Drake needed was 
more “bucking up” and less coddling. 

“Rather,” he said indifferently, as they mounted the 
stairs. That was the last that Helga saw of him for 
many days. 


V 


A Trunk, Some Baby Shoes, and a Few 
Speculations 

IVE days had gone by. Five days in which 
the household had been strangely hushed 
—in which Miles made hurried visits to 
the west wing, in which he held long, low 
conversations with the Doctor who was 
still in New York. During these days, Helga wandered 
about restlessly. She had written two brief, unexplan- 
atory letters to her family, ending in vague reassur¬ 
ances. Once or twice, while writing them, a scene had 
flashed across her mind—that last scene with her 
people. For a moment uneasiness would catch her as 
she heard again her mother’s bewildered, indignant 
words, and her father’s halting, absurd good-by. But 
she cast them impatiently from her. She could write 
them nothing definite as yet, she had done the sen¬ 
sible thing—so why should she sit and chew the pen 
and feel that undefined sense of guilt? For the first 
time in her life she tried to painfully assemble her own 
motives and reactions, but it was a difficult task—and 
one that has to be acquired by spiritual experiences 
through which the girl had never passed. The time 
was to come, perhaps. No one has ever yet fathomed 
the careless brutality of youth—nor the pain of its 
wistfulness. Perhaps none should desire to. Perhaps 
the world would be better and saner if that beautiful 
ruthlessness pervaded every generation—perhaps not. 

Miles came on her one day as she sat in the library. 
A cold May rain was slashing at the window, as though 
53 














54 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


it viciously desired to pay April for stealing its warm 
days. Helga was curled up on one end of the leather 
divan, her eyes listlessly following the gray wings of 
the storm. 

He carried a topcoat over one arm, and his brisk 
steps had almost taken him through the room when 
something in her attitude seemed to strike him. He 
halted, frowned a trifle, and then threw the coat upon 
a chair and seated himself beside her. 

“Can’t you find anything with which to amuse your¬ 
self?” he queried, but his light tone held a hint of 
irritation. 

“Don’t bother about me—I have a positive gift for 
loafing,” the girl answered. 

“Why don’t you read?” Helga’s look was helpless 
as she followed the wave of his hand which indicated 
a seemingly endless procession of volumes. 

“Your books are all too good,” she confessed. “I’m 
afraid I can’t seem to get interested in that type of 
thing—and the trash is too inane.” The man’s look 
was alert. 

“What ‘good’ things have you read? Surely you 
must have had to do some reading for high school and 
college. What was some of it?” 

“Well,” Helga was indifferent, “Dickens’ ‘Little 
Dorrit’ and Thackeray’s ‘Pendennis’ and Elliot’s ‘Mill 
On The Floss’ and a few others like that. I couldn’t 
seem to get much kick out of them. And then in col¬ 
lege this year we had Pope and Dryden and some of 
those old boys. I know I’m not—academically minded, 
but—why is it the classical writers and all the good 
moderns are so tiresome?” Miles had lit a cigarette, 
but now he threw it into the fireplace. 

“What rot!” he exclaimed vigorously. “No wonder 
you think so, if they started you out in your teens with 


A FEW SPECULATIONS 


55 


books of that type. What’s the matter with the sys¬ 
tem anyhow? Has it got dry rot? Look here—have 
you read Defoe’s ‘Moll Flanders’? Bennet’s ‘Five 
Towns’? Or Bronte’s ‘Jane Eyre’? Or Kipling’s 
‘Tales From The Hills’? Or Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron’? 
Or any of Galsworthy and Ibsen? Tolstoy and some 
of the other Russians who aren’t so rabidly new? 
Ye gods, no? I don’t know whether to pity you—or 
envy you at having it all ahead of you. Well, it’s 
easy to see what’s the trouble. Anything that has 
love and laughter and lust and guts—isn’t proper for 
the growing child. Consequently we have carefully 
censored ‘classical reading,’ so calculated that by the 
time a child is out of high school, unless he’s so fortu¬ 
nate as to come from a home that is full of books, he’ll 
run a mile before he’ll read anything that has been 
labelled as ‘good literature.’ It’s a crime.” 

“Some of those books were on our school lists,” 
Helga admitted honestly. 

“Of course they were—but they weren’t discussed in 
class and you weren’t urged to read them. Do you 
know what I’d do if I were a teacher or a parent? I’d 
have the school and the home full of everything that 
was worth while, and some that were not. And I’d 
turn the child loose with not one bit of piffle about 
‘classics.’ And if he wanted to read Tolstoy’s ‘Resur¬ 
rection’ when he was ten, and Alcott’s ‘Little Women’ 
when he was eleven and Horatio Alger’s ‘Boy Boot- 
black’ when he was twelve—never mind—he’d read . 
And by the time he was sixteen he couldn’t get through 
Horatio Alger to save his immortal soul. He’d be 
too full, and his appetite would begin to be discrim¬ 
inating. And he wouldn’t be a high-brow either. Now 
look here, Helga,” he turned a whimsical eye upon 
her, “you’re doomed. You’re to read ‘Jane Eyre’ this 


56 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


afternoon and evening. It’s a good slow book for a 
rainy day; and Knut Hamsen’s ‘Growth of the Soil’ 
tomorrow. Good Lord,” he chuckled, “I wonder how 
your brain will digest the combination. I would like,” 
he muttered, “to get your reaction on ‘The Scarlet 
Letter’ plus equal parts of Cabell’s ‘Jurgen,’ but I sup¬ 
pose that’s too much to hope for.” He rose and picked 
out three volumes with unerring, fastidious fingers and 
flung them beside her. 

“There you are, Miss Petersen, and when I get back 
from New York tomorrow, I shall catechise you.” 

Helga laughed back at him a little ruefully. 

“I shall never be able to finish three books by tomor¬ 
row,” she said. “I read very slowly.” 

“Gulp them up—then read them again sometime— 
you’ll want to. I’ll be back late tomorrow. The 
housekeeper will see that you’re taken care of cor¬ 
rectly.” Helga found her courage. 

“Your — nephew — he is all right?” Again he 
frowned and did not meet her gaze. His answer was 
hurried. 

“Nothing unusual—I am to bring the Doctor back 
with me. Good-by.” 

The house seemed strangely still when he had left. 
Then with a resolute look around the room the girl 
picked up “Jane Eyre.” For two hours she read, per¬ 
functorily at first, until the fascination of the little 
governess’ story, told in a quaint, old-fashioned man¬ 
ner, began to grip her. When Morton announced 
dinner, which she was to eat alone, she looked up 
impatiently, though her eyes were heavy. The large, 
oak-panelled dining room was not lonely to her. 
While she ate, the heavy-browed Rochester hurled 
polysyllabled sallies at her, and Jane Eyre moved with 
timorous yet independent demureness past her eyes. 


A FEW SPECULATIONS 


57 


“ ‘Young lady, I am disposed to be gregarious and 

communicative this evening- 5 ” Helga snickered 

covertly at the words, yet she found herself living in 
a very real love story, and one with a gripping mys¬ 
tery. To tell the truth, Helga was shocking Morton 
by reading at the table. 

The rain continued, as did the reading. By noon the 
next day, Helga was surfeited and restless. Like most 
people who read seldom, she projected herself with 
greater intensity into that which she read and she had 
not yet learned to slough one world of characters in 
order to slip easily into a vastly different one. “The 
Growth of the Soil,” in its first chapter, grated offen¬ 
sively on her present mood, which was decidedly Bron- 
teish. She let the latest volume slip from her fingers 
and stretching herself, wondered if her own situation 
did not hold elements as interesting as that of Bronte’s 
heroine. The solitary lunch was over. The house 
held that dead, vacant silence that falls when an 
accustomed occupant is absent. Morton had with¬ 
drawn to his stately meal with the chef and maids, and 
the upper floors were deserted. Helga smiled mis¬ 
chievously. It would be a good time to explore the 
house. She knew vaguely in which wing Drake’s 
quarters were situated and she would avoid that. 
Miles had given her free leave to go over the whole 
place—yet she preferred to pretend that she was going 
on a forbidden quest—and to allow the silence, the 
rain, the rambling reaches of the old house to grip her 
with the excitement of the explorer. 

The second floor she knew, with the exception of the 
wing that led to Drake’s apartment, and the adjoining 
rooms which were Miles’. So she followed the deep 
well of staircase that led to the third floor. Here on 
one side were smaller doors—evidently the servants’ 


58 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


quarters. She felt a slight sense of disappointment 
until she opened the door that gave on the wing 
directly above Drake’s apartment. Then she exhaled 
a deep breath of delight. It was one huge room, with 
a high ceiling and bare oak walls. The nearer end was 
taken up by an enormous, old-fashioned billiard table 
that had evidently been long in disuse, for the dust had 
gathered filmily over its green cloth surface. The 
rest of the room had been fitted up into a gymnasium, 
though on a somewhat small scale, naturally. Still 
there were window ladders, hurdling horses and mat¬ 
tresses, dumb-bells, and a fair representation of most 
of the paraphernalia of the average gymnasium. 
Helga’s eyes sparkled. This'was a discovery indeed. 
She looked stealthily about, and then slipped off her 
high-heeled shoes. After a moment’s hesitation, she 
shot the bolt in the door and then unfastened her 
pleated sport skirt, standing up untrammeled in the 
slim silk bloomers. She dared not attempt the hurdles, 
for lightly as she leaped, she might disturb the sick 
man in the wing below. The window ladders, the rope 
and the other apparatus, however, were hers for the 
trying. For a breathless hour of pleasure she swung 
back into the world that was behind her. She even 
rigged up a respectable tight rope from a coil which 
was lying unused on the floor, and, stretching it across 
two stanchions between the windows, she essayed some 
of the more elemental stunts—and at first was dis¬ 
turbed to find that she was decidedly out of practice. 
A half hour of patient work, however, reassured her, 
and when she finally disengaged the rope, she was 
glowing with the exercise and alive with the bodily 
vitality which she had always taken for granted. 

The rain had not ceased, and a glance at her wrist 
watch showed her that she still had a full hour in 


A FEW SPECULATIONS 


59 


which to prepare for dinner with Miles and the Doc¬ 
tor. So after dressing and sliding a careful glance 
around the room, she left it quietly and stood looking 
around the great hall uncertainly. To one side she 
knew was the room where Miles kept a great number 
of his treasured pictures and books, but she preferred 
to wait until he cared to show them to her—as he had 
one day carelessly suggested. The attic, however, she 
had still to explore, and an attic in this old house 
should be interesting and true to New England tradi¬ 
tion. In a household of men, like this, she reflected, 
it would either be absolutely bare, or else contain the 
cluttered accumulation of generations. She shrewdly 
suspected from the untended condition of the disused 
gymnasium, that it would be the latter. The house¬ 
keeper, apparently, concentrated her energies on the 
portion of the house that was directly under Miles’ 
eye, and Helga, whose housewifely sense was some¬ 
what strangely developed considering her upbringing, 
had at once realized that the management of the house 
left a great deal to be desired. The service was excel¬ 
lent, the food above reproach, every male comfort to 
be had for the asking. But it reminded the girl faintly 
of an exclusive club. Liqueurs and cigarettes at once 
available yes, but the silver sadly tarnished; immacu¬ 
late linen and the latest magazines—but wilted flowers 
left overlong in the bowls. The touch of a woman who 
cares, was distinctly absent. Perhaps some day, Helga 
caught her breath, this house would be under her man¬ 
agement. She would not destroy its easy-going, com¬ 
fortable atmosphere—but there should be a shine, an 
edge to the housekeeping that must become apparent 
even to—Miles. She flushed a little at the thought 
a$d turning abruptly, climbed the steep and uncar¬ 
peted stairs to the attic. 


60 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


At the top of the steps, she stood for a moment, 
blinking into the dusty grayness. The attic was well- 
windowed, though the casements were low and covered 
with dust. Nevertheless the almost incredible number 
of trunks and the discarded wrecks of furniture piled 
rather unsystematically, shut off the light somewhat. 
Green shades were over the windows, and the gray- 
green light filtered through the room in a liquid haze 
that gave the girl for an instant the impression that 
she stood on the bottom of the sea beside the hulks of 
submerged ships. It was an eerie mood, but she chose 
to retain it, and with a diver’s ardor who searches for 
old gold, attack the possibilities before her. 

For a few minutes she wandered about, accustoming 
herself to the dim light, and pausing with a sigh beside 
the pathetic ruin of some ancient brocaded sofa or a 
small oak highchair. Some long-dead hand had run a 
string across one wall and hung upon it with infinite 
care a long line of baby shoes, ridiculously tiny, ornate 
and old-fashioned. They were dusty and moulded, 
some of them, and a few had been preyed upon by 
moths, but evidently no one in future years had cared 
to disturb them. Small and futile, yet who shall know 
how long still the restless feet that had once been 
squeezed into them? Tied to one red leather bootee 
was a woman’s tarnished, almost blackened metal 
slipper. A few golden threads showed where it had 
been least exposed. It was so small that Helga con¬ 
templated it with awe. 

What was the story behind the union of that little 
dancing slipper, gayly insolent, and the baby’s bootee? 
Was it a commonplace one—or, for an instant a tragic 
chill breath blew over the girl—a suggestion of some 
concealed horror? It passed instantly, and with a 
smiling shrug, she turned her attention to the trunks. 


A FEW SPECULATIONS 


61 


The foreign labels held her fascinated. Tahiti— 
Christiania—Calcutta—Paris, of course; an almost 
defaced label of a South American port and even a 
name that suggested vaguely to her, New Guinea! 
How far had those feet wandered whose owners had 
once worn the tiny boots hanging on the wall! Had 
they silenced in themselves the restlessness that now 
filled her heart? Had those gold slippers known the 
velvet of some tropic sward or had they danced de¬ 
murely the waltzes of old Boston, or the Blue Danube 
on some moonlit terrace of Monte Carlo? 

Helga yearned to explore the contents of the trunks, 
but most of them were closed, and though some of the 
keys had been left artlessly in the locks, she ignored 
them. She had always been venturesome, never pry¬ 
ing. In the dusk of one wall, however, she came upon 
a wardrobe trunk of fairly recent date and a newer 
appearance. Its lid stood carelessly open and she 
caught sight of a number of gowns hanging in its 
recess. She drew near, and stood for a moment study¬ 
ing them. Gray, rose, lavender, gray, blue, lavender. 
Helga caught her breath. She would not need to have 
been quick-witted to have realized that this trunk had 
undoubtedly belonged to Drake Gellert’s wife—now 
dead. 

Helga felt a very human desire to satisfy herself as 
to her guess about the girl’s appearance. With hesi¬ 
tant, yet reverent hands, she withdrew one filmy geor¬ 
gette frock of gray and lavender. It was short—but 
of course the dresses had been short in ’17, so that 
proved little as to height. But holding it up against 
her own length, Helga saw that the shoulders were nar¬ 
row and the underwaist beneath the beaded tunic in¬ 
credibly finy. She sighed with a half-satisfaction at 
her guess, as she replaced the dress, and a whiff of faint 


62 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


perfume mutely reproached the disturbance. Then 
she paused in indecision. The trunk had been very 
recently open, for the dresses showed few traces of 
exposure. But whoever had opened it had been crim¬ 
inally careless, if it had been desired that the con¬ 
tents should be preserved. Perhaps she had better 
close it, at least sufficiently to keep out the dust. As 
it was a wardrobe, it stood upended and closing the 
lid proved to be a difficult task. Helga struggled for 
a moment, before she discovered that protruding 
drawers near the hinges were causing the trouble. She 
closed all but the lower one which was caught evi¬ 
dently by a bunch of papers. Finally she jerked it 
out, thrust the papers back and closed the trunk. As 
she did so she heard an unwelcome sound—the sound 
of a foot on the stair. With an undeserved sense of 
guilt she turned hastily away. Her foot kicked a let¬ 
ter that lay on the floor and that had spilled from the 
ribbon that had confined it to a group of papers in the 
trunk. 

Helga was dismayed. Unseen it must have fallen 
from the drawer. She had no time to reopen the trunk 
and replace it before she would be “discovered.” She 
picked it up and thrust it under her sweater, held in 
place by her belt. She was annoyed and angry; she 
had been given permission to explore—and if it had 
been any other trunk she would have calmly explained. 
In connection with this one, however, she felt a not 
unnatural hesitancy in admitting she had seen any of 
its contents. Miles—anyone—would believe she had 
been vulgarly prying into the effects of a woman to 
whose nominal place at least, she was hoping to suc¬ 
ceed. It would be unbearable to have him think that 
—to add to her obvious crudities in his eyes, a much 
more serious fault. She was at the other side of the 


A FEW SPECULATIONS 


63 


attic, hating herself for the necessity of the deception, 
flushing almost to tears, when a man entered the room. 
He did not see her, nor did he apparently suspect her 
presence, for he stood there gazing about the dimness. 
As he turned his eyes unseeingly toward her, she saw 
that it was Drake, and realized at the same time that 
his eyes had not yet accustomed themselves to the 
dusky ligm. She could not bear to have him think 
himself alone for a moment, so, more composed, and 
with the flush fading, she moved nearer and spoke to 
him. 

“It’s I, Miss Petersen, Mr. Gellert,” she said quietly, 
“I hope you don’t feel that I’m an intruder here. 
Your uncle told me I might explore the house and a 
rainy day always makes me think of attics-” 

He had started and frowned sullenly when he had 
first seen her, but now he made an obvious effort to 
be civil. 

“Ah, yes, Miss Petersen,” he said vacantly, £ ‘I 
haven’t been up here for some years—until the other 
day, myself. I came up to find—what the devil was 
it I came up to find?” He pushed his hair wearily 
back from his forehead, and now that she could see 
his eyes trying to find hers, she noticed that they were 
heavy and circled. 

“You look tired,” she said gently. “Hadn’t you 
better postpone your search? It’s really pretty stuffy 
up here now, too.” 

“No—no,” he said irritably, “I got it open—the 
trunk open, but I didn’t have time to look through it. 
That damned—that damned William interrupted me.” 
He looked around, his head swinging from the huge, 
bent shoulders like that of some great animal peering 
into a cave. “I left it open so I could find it again,” 
he said almost forlornly, “but now some damned fool’s 



64 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


dosed it and it’s so hard to see in here-” Helga felt 

he was almost oblivious of her presence now, and for 
one panicky moment she wanted to slip behind him 
and down the stairs. So this was it—this was a 
“phase”! It was not as she had imagined—some 
virulent mood that one could put a finger upon, but 
something infinitely more pitiful. It was a sane mind 
groping in a vacant world; a mentality functioning 
perfectly—on problems that had long since been 
solved; fingers reaching out confidently for a body 
that had long since crumbled to dust. 

Helga no longer felt panic, only an overwhelming 
pity, an emotion new to her. It is easier sometimes 
to focus sympathy on some problem in which one is 
not an immediate factor. Nevertheless, perhaps Helga 
climbed one rung of her spiritual ladder in those few 
minutes of silence, there in the old attic. Perhaps she 
glimpsed dimly, though not in relation to herself and 
her family, the havoc that can be wrought in the mind 
alone. 

“I saw an old wardrobe trunk in the corner,” she 
said timidly, “perhaps it is that you want? Let me 
help you open it.” The first obvious consciousness of 
her presence seemed to come to him as he motioned 
her aside and swung the lid open himself. Helga 
turned away, uncertain as to her responsibility. Should 
she call William—or might Miles have already re¬ 
turned? She halted, for Miles himself faced her. 

“What are you doing? Is Drake here?” he queried 
almost sharply, with no welcoming smile. The girl 
shrank back. 

“I was exploring—and he just came up,” she said 
faintly. “He didn’t seem—well, but he wanted to look 
in that trunk—and I didn’t know quite what to do. 
Oh, I’m glad you are here,” she added gratefully. 



A FEW SPECULATIONS 65 

His face relaxed into a faint smile and he took her 
hand. 

“So am I,” he said lightly. “And don’t worry your 
little head off. Now run along like a good girl and 
tell them to hold dinner for half an hour-” 

“Oh, is it that late?” she gasped, and fled down the 
stairs, relieved at the opportunity to get away quickly. 
She had felt, for an instant, like a small child, rebuked 
—but that feeling often came to her with Miles. It 
was the natural corollary of the almost childish ven¬ 
eration in which she was growing to hold him—though 
as yet it only manifested itself in a shy desire to please 
him, to be less flamboyant, more intelligent—more 
daintily feminine. 

Now as she dressed, her eyes sparkled and her face 
flushed as she tried hurriedly to decide what penetrat¬ 
ing comments she should make on the reading she had 
done. Her lips drooped forlornly as she wished the 
afternoon had been spent with the “Growth of the 
Soil” instead of in the gymnasium and attic. She was 
dressed, and the gown, while perhaps it did not suit 
her type, was certainly demure—a pale blue, with the 
fascinating little lace cuffs that had lately come in 
vogue. With satisfaction, she decided that it certainly 
dimmed her coloring. 

She paused and studied hesitatingly the letter she 
had concealed. The only thing to do was to hide it 
until she had an opportunity to replace it in the trunk. 
That might be difficult, for she had an unreasoning 
dislike of going to the attic again after Miles’ first 
comment to her. For a moment she felt resentful. 
Why the devil should he have spoken like that after 
having told her to look around? Then her face sof¬ 
tened. He had probably been wild with anxiety about 
Drake and had not realized his curtness. 



66 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


She went to the little painted secretaire in the corner 
and poked the letter into one of the pigeonholes. The 
little desk, of course, had been swept clean of papers 
before her coming, but after all, the letter looked 
appropriate there, as though it had once again come 
into its own. She had noted, of course, that it was 
addressed to Mrs. Drake Gellert, but she felt no curi¬ 
osity. The flowing handwriting on the envelope meant 
nothing to her, nor if it had, would she have been 
interested in reading the letter. The possibility did 
not enter her head. Such a suggestion rarely does, 
except to the inordinate egoist and meddler. The per¬ 
son who eavesdrops through the keyhole of letters is 
the same person, generally, who comments suspiciously 
on seeing two people in an interested conversation: 
u What are you saying about me?” Ego run wild! Or, 
sometimes, at the other extreme, the creeping, color¬ 
less soul who feeds, vicariously, like a sad ghoul, on 
the corpses of others’ passions. Another type, another 
reason there is, but few of us reach the tragic heights 
where the despairing soul casts all conventions, all inhi¬ 
bitions to the winds—in order—to know . 

Helga was neither of these extremes, nor was she the 
tragic mean, seeking a soul-destroying knowledge or a 
sad comfort. She was quite ordinary—the blessed 
type that one leaves, unconcerned, in reach of one’s 
silver and personal correspondence. 


The First Doubts 



jjT’S cleared off, after all and we’ll have a 
taste of real summer tomorrow, if I’m 
not mistaken.” The Doctor’s voice was 
cheery, but his expression was somewhat 
grave as he came through the French win¬ 
dow of the library and greeted Helga. Dinner was 
over, a drab, sober meal, with few words between her 
and Miles, and now she offered her hand rather drear¬ 
ily to the Doctor. He looked at her earnestly as his 
fingers clasped hers. 

“You seem to be in the pink—but a little depressed. 
You’re not letting the atmosphere get you, are you?” 
Helga shook her head, a little surprised. 

“Mr. Gellert’s illness is not allowed to upset the 
household,” she replied. “It’s just—it’s just the sus¬ 
pense of knowing what you all are planning to do,” 
she ended desperately. The Doctor’s face was non¬ 
committal. 

“You have not changed your mind then—you want 
to stay?” 

“Oh, I do! It’s quiet here, but that’s—restful to 
me, and I like—them both so much. Of course,” she 
went on, meeting the Doctor’s questioning look con¬ 
fusedly, “I don’t know Mr. Drake Gellert very well.” 
The Doctor’s answer was dry. 

“You will be marrying him.” 

“Yes—yes, in a way, but it’s hardly fair to call it a 
marriage. I shall be only a companion. Since I saw 
67 








68 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


him this afternoon I mind the—marriage less. He is 
still absorbed in his wife—the thought of her.” 

“That is true. But in what way is he absorbed in 
her?” 

“What do you mean?” The man shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders and his face was enigmatical. 

“You are seriously thinking of marrying him—and 
you don’t even know that?” The girl looked past him 
with parted lips and a flush, and turning, he saw 
Miles, who had paused at the door to give a low-voiced 
instruction to William. As Helga’s glance turned 
back, the Doctor’s look cut like a whip across her 
face. 

“You know why you are marrying—Drake, don’t 
you?” Helga shrank a little at his tone, and her face 
burned. A wave of self-knowledge and then doubt 
swept across her face. For a flash she understood 
herself and the Doctor’s meaning, and then a fierce 
repudiation wiped out that clear vision. 

“You are wrong—I don’t know what you mean,” she 
had faltered and her lips trembled ever so slightly. 

“Ah!” It was the only comment the man made, 
but Helga felt that he had flung a barrier up between 
them which denied their first friendship. He was un¬ 
fair—unfair, she told herself stormily, to resent her 
doing this thing that had been partly of his making, at 
least which had had his acquiescence. Yet, never¬ 
theless, she felt herself lowered in her own eyes be¬ 
cause the Doctor had abruptly and unspokenly con¬ 
demned her. The old defiance claimed her and she 
flung her head up proudly as Miles came towards them 
and seated himself opposite them on the padded brass 
fire rail. His hands were working uneasily, and his 
eyes were cast down. His usual assurance seemed to 
have left him. 


THE FIRST DOUBTS 


69 


“Well,” he said at last with an attempt at lightness, 
“ ‘the time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of 
many things!’ ” 

. . ‘and whether pigs have wings’,” muttered the 
Doctor. “You are going to try to prove that, are you, 
my foolish Miles?” 

Miles’ look measured the Doctor’s. 

“So you no longer think well of our little plan?” 

“A theory and a specific instance are very different 
things, I have found,” the Doctor nodded. “I plead 
guilty to having changed my mind. In fact I find 
myself completely unable to reason out why a paid 
companion—with an assured income, should not do far 
better than a wife—in this case.” Miles shrugged. 

“We have been over that before, evening after eve¬ 
ning. What would happen to Drake—if anything 
happened to me—or you? Neither of us are young 
men. Who will have not only a duty but a pride in 
keeping him well and content when I am away? You 
know I have dodged that South American trip as long 
as I dare. Finally—what contract on earth would 
hold any person of either sex to a paid job of this 
kind—with no personal interest in it? Drake should 
get away for long periods, but I can’t always go with 
him—and he wouldn’t go with me anyway. William 
hasn’t any initiative and he bores Drake. He can’t 
stand a fussy old woman, and I can’t send him away 

with a young nurse-” He sighed wearily and 

dropped his head in his hands. 

“You’ve thought about this too much,” the old Doc¬ 
tor’s voice was kindly. “Run away for a time and get 
a sane view of it. What does Drake—say?” 

“He told me,” Miles’ twisted smile was ghastly, 
“that I could do anything that made him less of a 
bother to me—but he meant the reverse. My God!” 



70 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


He lifted his head and his voice was almost fierce. “Do 
you suppose that I’d leave him in the care of any one 
on earth—if he didn’t hate the sight of me?” The 
Doctor patted his shoulder rather futilely. 

“Keep a stiff upper lip, old chap—remember I’ve 
explained that to you. It’s often that way—in a 
trouble of this kind.” 

“Not with you.” Miles’ tone was bitter. 

“I wasn’t the one whom he cared for the most,” the 
Doctor reminded him quietly. Miles stood up and 
attempted to regain his poise, but the hand which lit 
his cigarette was unsteady. He flung the match in 
the tray and faced them. 

“Well, the discussion is closed as far as I am con¬ 
cerned,” he declared formally. “If you, Miss Petersen, 
are willing to marry my nephew—under the conditions 
you made.” 

“I am.” 

“Very well. My lawyer will discuss settlements with 
you tomorrow—and that portion of your record 
which,” he gave her an ironical bow, “you are willing 
to make public. The Doctor here will, perhaps, also 
have a little talk with you.” But the Doctor had 
risen, and stood there, his rugged face bleak. 

“I withdraw from this affair absolutely, Miles,” he 
stated. “I will have nothing to do with this marriage. 
As for Drake, he is, of course, my concern always. 
But I warn you, Miles, that there is a possibility that 
this marriage may not be legal.” 

“You are wrong. Any marriage—contracted of his 
own free will by a person who is—sane—at the time, 
is legal. And you yourself, Doctor, have always told 
me my nephew was in no sense an insane person. Did 
you lie?” 

The Doctor hung his head. 


THE FIRST DOUBTS 


71 


“No. But certain of his states are hardly—respon¬ 
sible.^ 

“Very well.” Miles’ smile was hard, and his eyes 
bright. “I relieve you of any share in the desperate 
deed. And if you have scruples, no doubt I can 
arrange for you to be relieved of the care of Drake—” 
The Doctor turned abruptly at the door and his eyes 
were stem. 

“You can’t do that—” 

“Nor do I wish to—” 

“—but,” the Doctor went on, and now his face had 
softened into sadness, “I am afraid you are getting 
things into a worse tangle than ever. You were always 
headstrong—remember, Miles.” His eyes held those 
of the younger man for a grim instant, and then he 
bowed. But the girl did not feel that his parting 
glance included her. She had risen expectantly, and 
now, as the Doctor disappeared, her head drooped. 
But Miles swung about, his stride purposeful, and 
now both his hands seized hers. 

“Doctor Mallow is a bit upset now, but he’ll soon 
come around. If he doesn’t, never mind. I know 
I’m doing the right thing,” his tone was defiant, “and 
if you’ll help me, there is nothing on earth I won’t 
do for you, Miss Petersen. Nothing on earth, do you 
hear?” He raised her hand almost impersonally to 
his lips, but she saw that his eyes had gone beyond hers 
to a small snapshot of Drake over the fireplace. It was 
a laughing photograph—that of a young man in tennis 
flannels, with roughened hair and an irresponsible 
grin. 

“Make him look like that again,” he whispered 
under his breath, “and you will—justify me.” Then 
he was gone. 

Helga walked slowly across the room and studied 


72 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


the snapshot. But the hand that Miles had brushed 
with his lips rested unconsciously against her cheek. 
Miles could make gestures like that without appear¬ 
ing affected. Incongruously came the thought of 
Drake doing such a thing. She could not even imag¬ 
ine it. Suddenly, now that her ambition was on the 
eve of being realized, Helga felt desperately depressed. 
She walked back and listlessly picked up “The Growth 
of the Soil” and then, on an impulse, flung it from her. 
Slow, sordid, splendid, creeping—would her life move 
ponderously and with infinitesimal progress like the 
growth of the soil? Never! It must come quickly and 
gloriously to her—in a golden tide. Pushing and over¬ 
whelming as a flooded river at sunrise, her life should 
be, not like the stolid earth. The Doctor would have 
told her that the word she groped for was not “life” 
and that she was shortly to raise with her own hands 
a barrier against that splendid flood, that dammed 
behind that barrier its waters might rush disastrously 
through other fields. 

She stood in front of her mirror that night, brush¬ 
ing her hair with a slow, mechanical motion, and only 
half-consciously her eyes took note of the reflection 
before her. The girl who looked back at her from 
under the gleaming curtain of hair was some one 
else—some one whom she was deliberately offering up 
in what she hoped might be a worthwhile sacrifice. 
At the thought, she studied her counterpart with an 
impersonal eye. 

The clinging nightdress seemed to outline, in the 
low radiance of the lamps, the crescent of silver which 
was the smooth curve of the thigh, and the silk fell into 
a rose-dark shadow at the lovely incurve of the breasts. 
Above the full ivory throat and sound small chin, the 
wide scarlet mouth was still with a curiously virginal 


THE FIRST DOUBTS 


73 


firmness. For a moment Helga’s brush was still. Rare 
are the women who can view with such cool confidence 
their entire bodies—and who at the same time have 
so little interest in capitalizing them. The girl’s physi¬ 
cal fitness and ability had of course been her livelihood, 
but in the careful regime and rigid grooming which her 
training had demanded, was no hint of the vanity of 
the woman who covers with cosmetics a blemished skin. 

There was a light tap on the door—the maid with 
the warm glass of milk which the girl had never 
thought of discontinuing. With a rather naive sim¬ 
plicity, considering her rebellion, she still conformed as 
far as possible to the outward rites of her past life. 

“Come in, Ellen,” she called, as she turned in a 
leisurely fashion to remove her negligee from the ward¬ 
robe. She heard the door open and then a hesitant 
step, and without turning around she spoke rather 
impatiently. 

“Put it on the table, please, and close the door. 
There’s quite a draft.” Then she swung around and 
the heavy silk wrap slipped from her fingers. 

“Mr. Gellert!” Drake stood there, his hand still on 
the door knob. There was a curious expression on his 
face though his voice was quiet and he made no move 
to leave the room. 

“I beg your pardon—I’m afraid you thought I was 
Ellen,” he began, and then as Helga unhurriedly and 
yet with a lack of gesture that in itself was modesty, 
retrieved the wrap and slipped it about her, he delib¬ 
erately stepped into the room and closed the door 
behind him. 

“Under the circumstances, I think it is permissible 
for me to talk to you here—we can hardly flout tradi¬ 
tions any more than we are about to. May I sit 
down?” 


74 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Certainly.” 

Helga looked about for her slippers and gravely 
accepted the satin absurdities which he removed from 
a wicker chair before seating himself. She glanced at 
the divan and chairs which stood in the shadow at 
the far end of the room. Then she perched herself on 
the foot of the bed and wound one white arm over the 
footboard. 

‘Til sit here—then we’ll be nearer,” she suggested 
simply. She sensed that a certain defiant hostility in 
his bearing when he had entered the room, had 
softened. 

“You have something unpleasant to say,” she an¬ 
nounced. 

“I—have—did have.” His tone was grim, yet there 
was a new uncertainty in it. “You know we are to be 
married three days from now?” he said slowly. She 
nodded. 

“And—and you have changed your mind?” Her 
voice was unapprehensive though all her plans were 
tumbling about her. His laugh was short. 

“It isn’t a question of changing my mind. I have 
never used it on the subject, before tonight when Miles 
announced the completed plans. It is Miles, and the 
Doctor—and you who have made up your minds.” 
Helga flushed. 

“Are—are you trying to be unpleasant—to me?” 
Again he laughed. 

“I’m trying to, but it’s damned hard to be.” The 
girl looked at the little ivory clock on the dressing 
table. 

“It’s getting late and I think you had better say 
plainly what you came to say. Mr. Gellert might be 
annoyed—with me, if he knew you were here.” 

“Damn Miles!” Drake’s brows drew together and 


THE FIRST DOUBTS 


75 


he rose suddenly, and with a swift, surprisingly light 
step crossed the space between them and seated him¬ 
self beside the girl. His hands were thrust in his pock¬ 
ets now and for a moment he did not look at her. 

“My worthy uncle has picked me a wife and gone 
ahead with his plans. He is welcome to. But, by God, 
after he's done so, I've at least a right to talk with 
you privately if I want to." 

“Well?” Helga’s questioning look compelled his 
eyes to meet hers. For a moment they studied each 
other almost hostilely. 

“Look at me—what do you see?” His tone was 
sneering. The girl felt an extraordinary gust of rage 
which chilled her words into deliberation as she 
answered. 

“I see a man about thirty-two or three,” she said 
directly, “a tall man with an unusually powerful build. 
A man of the great open spaces,” she went on satiri¬ 
cally, “who has hidden himself for years in a very tiny 
corner of the world—God knows why.” She leaned 
forward and studied him closely as though in earnest 
appraisal of some article which he had offered her. “I 
see he has a handsome—aggressive face—and—and 
-” she faltered a little, “a selfish, angry mouth!” 

She leaned back. “I’ve cooked everything,” she 
thought, “but at least I’ve had the satisfaction of doing 
it myself. I believe he deliberately waited until every¬ 
thing was settled, just to show everybody—particu¬ 
larly Mr. Miles—how little real authority they had 
over him. Nasty brute!” 

But Drake was actually laughing, though the gray 
eyes were as cold and keen as ever. 

“A selfish, angry mouth, eh? Well, you know what 
I see —I don’t have to tell you. Down to the exact 
shade of pastel of that very fetching instep, you know 



76 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


what I see. You feel you have diagnosed a ‘selfish, 
angry mouth’ so correctly that you have no doubt 
as to the result of the exposure of that shoulder, eh?” 
With a lazy, catlike insolence he stooped and pressed 
hot, contemptuous lips upon the creamy flesh. 

Helga did not stir. Her amber eyes were almost 
opaque now and hid behind lowered lids the clawing 
fury that was there concealed. Perhaps her immo¬ 
bility disconcerted him, for he straightened and spoke 
more rapidly, though in the same tone. 

“I may have hidden myself away in a tiny corner of 
the world—but this sort of thing is nothing novel. . . . 
Nurses! . . . Good God! . . . Small ones, tall ones, 
homely ones, handsome ones—though none as charm¬ 
ing as you, my dear, I shall have to admit. And with 
a few exceptions, they were all alike. Oh, the negligees 
I’ve seen, unexpectedly, of course . . . and the lovely 
arms that have been slid under my neck—to make sure 
the pillows were comfortable . . . and the midnight 
conferences when they’ve been so homesick for their 
mothers—or the lovully, lovully hospitals! 

“Don’t imagine for a moment that I’ve been so 
unkind to any of those dear creatures as you may 
think I’m being tonight to you. But you see, after all, 
none of them married me-” 

“But now you feel unprotected,” the girl’s smile was 
twisted. Then she glanced sideways at the brown, 
muscular face, the handsome, arrogant eyes. She 
lifted her hand in protest as he was about to continue. 
Sickened, humiliated as she was, she weighed in a 
flash the relative merits of two luxuries—the luxury of 
allowing this same white hand to strike that insulting 
look from his face, or the luxury of attaining the goal 
which was so nearly in her grasp. Something seemed 
to die within her as she chose the latter. 



THE FIRST DOUBTS 


77 


“Please let me speak, Mr. Gellert. Whatever you 
have decided, please don’t say that further thing which 
will make it impossible for me even to remain here 
tonight. I think I can say it for you. You are afraid, 
no matter what has been made clear to me, that I am 
a—a sort of man-eating tigress who will never be con¬ 
tent until I have—have—raped your affections.” Her 
tone was infinitely cynical, and for the first time the 
man flushed a little. “You want me to understand 
that you are still true to your love for your dead 

wife-” for a moment he seemed about to interrupt 

her, but subsided, “and that desirable as you have 
been to hundreds of beautiful women, I must make up 
my mind that you are wholly unattainable. I am 
right?” Her words slurred into mockery. 

Then he threw back his head and laughed, and she 
saw the hard lines of his jaw relax. 

“I asked for it, didn’t I? In a way, I apologize 
—and in a way I don’t. It had to be said for my 
own peace of mind ... for me to be certain that 
Miles had been straight with you. You see—as the 
Doctor says, you’re so damnably attractive, and so 
—so obviously cut out for a different sort of marriage 
that I could hardly believe you knew what you were 
doing. Why even now,” he seized her wrists, “I could 
put my arms around you and crush all of you to me 
—though it would mean nothing to either of us. I 
could lean down just four, no—three inches, and kiss 
your eyelashes—very remarkable ones, they are, too, 
my dear—and from there it would be a very short cut 
to your lips.” 

Her hands were in a stronger grip than even she 
could break. A terrifying lassitude seemed to have 
gripped her. 

“But you would have no real desire to do it, because 



78 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


it would mean nothing to either of us,” she said 
evenly. 

He released her wrists suddenly. 

“It would mean nothing,” he agreed, and she could 
not read the tone of his voice. As he stood up she also 
arose and took a few quick steps toward the center of 
the room. She breathed deeply, as though a strange 
sultriness in the air had been dispersed, and her hands 
went to her breast that was rising and falling now in 
a natural, even rhythm. The man still seemed held in 
the same odd spell from which she had been mercifully 
released and she stood watching him quietly, waiting 
for his unseeing eyes to focus upon her again. 

At last he raised his head with a start and with a 
quick, decisive gesture thrust the hair back from his 
forehead. 

“I’ve kept you up late,” he said abruptly, and with 
no other word started for the door. She followed him 
and laid a hand that was friendly, and yet impersonal, 
on his arm. Then she looked up at him and in her 
eyes was the charming dignity of a child. 

“If this marriage worries you—and I think it does,” 
she said serenely, “you have only to tell me, and I will 
explain to Mr. Gellert tomorrow that I cannot go 
through with it.” 

He looked at her and there was a nervous, leaping 
flame in his eyes. He touched her hands almost diffi¬ 
dently. 

“No—no, let’s go through with it,” he replied, and 
the words were jerky. The door closed behind him. 

Helga stood immovable for a moment and then 
slowly, almost wearily, walked to her dressing table 
and, sinking into a chair before it, studied her reflec¬ 
tion as she had earlier in the evening. But somehow 
she was staring with a new, less impersonal knowledge. 


THE FIRST DOUBTS 


79 


At the last, Helga clung to Dr. Mallow and her 
eyes were bright with tears. They, the little party of 
four, had left the Manchester office where she and 
Drake had been married—publicity was to be avoided 
—and now they stood somewhat uncertainly on the 
glistening pavement as William manoeuvred the car 
to the curb. It was the middle of a hot June, and 
waves of heat rose from the asphalt, adding to the 
general discomfort. Drake and Miles stood a few 
steps away, silent as they watched, or pretended to 
watch, William’s difficulties. But Helga had turned 
back and seized the Doctor’s hands. 

“Isn’t it funny,” she gasped, almost hysterically, 
“to look at all of us? After all, I’m—I’m married— 
but it seems like a—bad dream. Oh, Doctor, please at 
least smile at me.” The Doctor smiled at her. His 
anger was swift, but as quick to relent. And in his 
heart he felt she badly needed the smiles. After all, 
the damage was done now. 

“But you’re not married—don’t forget that,” he 
said, seizing her hands, “or you’ll lose control of your¬ 
self. Just remember that you’re doing something that 
will offer—er—material advantages for you, and that 
you’re doing a great deal for Miles and Drake—but 
you’re not married. After all, there are the annul¬ 
ment courts,” he added savagely under his breath. 
Helga drew her hands away and flung her head high. 

“So you think that—too—of me?” she queried 
slowly. The Doctor felt quick compunction. 

“Never,” and turning he helped her into the car. 
Drake followed her and sat there looking indifferently 
across the street. Miles leaned into the tonneau and 
wrung Helga’s hand. 

“William knows all about the arrangements,” he 
murmured. “And for heaven’s sake telephone if any- 


80 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


thing goes wrong. Good luck to you both. You have 
plenty of money ?” 

“Mr. Carter saw to that,” she responded, tonelessly. 
Miles nodded, satisfied. Carter, his lawyer, had han¬ 
dled that side of the affair very delicately, he felt. 

As the limousine began to hum, Helga leaned for¬ 
ward and gave Miles and the Doctor a sweeping smile. 
But it vanished as the car started from the curb. After 
all, she had not wished Miles to be solicitous about 
money. And she had hoped for a warmer farewell than 
“good-luck.” Then she shrugged her shoulders and 
turned to Drake. At least, bitterly, she might earn 
the money. He was smiling at her, and half-startled, 
she returned the smile. 

“It sounded terribly solemn there in the office,” he 
remarked, and to her surprise she saw that he had 
urged himself out of his lethargy long enough to re¬ 
assure her, “but it doesn’t mean anything except that 
I can be sure of some one to play tennis and go 
swimming with!” 

“But you,” she said hesitantly, and then plunged. 
“I never felt sure whether you consented—while you 
were—not yourself.” He flushed darkly, but his reply 
was calm. 

“No—I was sane and in my right mind. Don’t have 
any scruples on that score. But,” deliberately, “I 
think it is you and not I who is to be pitied. However, 
I presume you and Miles settled that point to your sat¬ 
isfaction. And now for Heaven’s sake, let’s forget the 
whole damn business. Shall we?” He held out his 
hand. For an instant she saw the genial smile, and 
then it was lost, not in the mist of the morning, as she 
had first seen it, but in the heavier veil of indifference. 
The car swung on its way to the camp that they were 
to occupy for a month. And silence fell between them. 


VII 

Frankie Seizes the Limelight 



OW do you think Drake looks?” Helga’s 
question was careless, but she could not 
keep the triumph out of her voice. 

“Simply superb—you’ve done some¬ 
thing we’ve all been trying to do for 
years,” Frankie replied generously. 

The two girls were lying on the scorching sand of 
the little beach, but the wooded slopes behind them 
fulfilled the island’s promise of summer comfort, and 
the breeze that blew constantly in from the lake made 
the heat of the sand bearable. Frankie had arrived 
on the island a short hour before, but it had taken 
her little time to jump into her bathing suit. They 
had not yet gone in the water. The drowsy laziness 
that the beach induced, plus the comfort of a cigarette 
and a desultory conversation, were too inviting. As yet 
Frankie had made no comment on Helga’s sudden 
marriage, nor expressed any tactless surprise at 
being urged to become a third in what might have 
been conventionally presumed to be a honeymoon 
month. And yet, Helga reflected, there was no rea¬ 
son why she should have done either. Surely Dr. 
Mallow had dropped sufficient hints to his favorite 
niece to apprise her of the situation. She had been 
prepared to draw into a shell of aloofness if the other 
girl had seemed inquisitive, but now Frankie’s placid 
acceptance of the status quo piqued her curiosity as 
to what her companion was thinking and from what 
angle the average person would view the affair. So 
81 









82 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


her question had been deliberate, and when Frankie, 
whose head had been pillowed on her arm, raised a 
sand-sprinkled face and smiled full in her eyes as she 
replied, Helga realized that her thoughts had been 
read. 

“Yes, I think you have—justified the arrangement,” 
Frankie took a puff of her cigarette as she spoke 
deliberately. 

“It needed to be justified?” Helga’s voice was low. 
How much did Frankie know or sense? 

“You are not in love with your husband-” 

“No—are you in love with him?” Helga’s question 
rushed out with a nakedness that surprised herself, 
nor did she know why she should have asked it. 
Frankie eyed her directly and seemed in nowise dis¬ 
turbed. 

“N-no, I don’t think so, Helga. I love Drake, but 
I’m not in love with him—at least I don’t think so,” 
she added honestly and a bit laboriously. “I think 
I’m quite in love with my own husband.” 

“Your husband?” Helga’s voice was faint with 
shock. Frankie rolled over on her back and shrieked 
delightedly, small brown legs waving in the air. 

“Don’t tell me,” she gurgled, “you didn’t know I 
was married! But, no, I see it now—nobody ever 
thinks of calling me anything but Frankie Mallow. 
You see,” she calmed down, “Robert is an engineer— 
specializes in dams and bric-a-brac like that. He’s 
down in South America now, working on one. Miles 
is interested, financially, in the thing and that’s why 
he’s gone down himself. You’ll like Bob,” she rattled 
on, seeing that Helga’s embarrassment was still acute. 
“He’s really quite a regular chap—one of that hard- 
bitted sort, you know, with the grin of a ten-year-old. 
But to go back to Drake—I hardly knew him just now. 



FRANKIE SEIZES THE LIMELIGHT 83 


He’s so brown and so genial and he looks as though 
he’d been pushed out of that bad rut he got into. 
You like him, don’t you, now that you’re getting to 
know him?” 

“Why, yes.” Helga’s answer was hesitating. “But 
the trouble is, I don’t really know him. I don’t under¬ 
stand him. How can I,” she asked despairingly, 
“when I know really nothing about the whys and 
wherefores of his condition—and about his—wife? 
Won’t you tell me all you know, Frankie—all? Even 
if our marriage is—as it is—haven’t I got at least the 
right to know what you do?” Frankie sat up soberly, 
her eyes fixed on the turquoise glare of the lake. 

“I think you have, old dear, and I haven’t the least 
objection to telling you what I know. I suppose you 
are eager to find out what kind of a girl Leda was and 
what happened and all that stuff?” 

“If you please.” Helga’s voice had the subdued 
eagerness of a prim child’s. 

“Well, let’s see—Leda was singing in vaudeville when 
Drake first met her. She wasn’t in the least the type 
whom he naturally gravitated toward—so he fell hard. 
She was a dainty little thing, smaller than I, but 
ethereal looking, like a Dresden doll. And she had a 
timid, cultured little voice—never spoke a word of 
slang—funny isn’t it?—but that was her line. You 
never saw any one so immaculate and fragile and 
conventional.” 

“You didn’t like her,” shrewdly. 

“Well, no,” Frankie was rueful. “She was too all- 
the-same for me. I don’t mean the kind of person who 
has simply an even temperament, because she didn’t 
have. But no matter how she felt or what she said, it 
was always with that gay little smile. You couldn’t 
put your finger on her anywhere. But Drake isn’t 


84 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


shallow and he loved her, so she couldn’t have been as 
artificial as she seemed to me. I suspect she didn’t 
like me very much—and of course I thought that 
very poor judgment on her part.” Frankie laughed 
whimsically. 

“Since you’ve found me out already, perhaps I’d 
better stick to facts—which is tiresome, for people are 
so much more interesting than what happens to them. 
Well, Drake married her, installed her in the Gellert 
home—and went abroad three weeks later. That was 
in T7. They sent him home after the armistice. He 
had been badly gassed. I fancy he wasn’t a very 
patient invalid—he hates being coddled, for anyway 
they were having little spats before he had been home 
a month—largely over things she did or said. After 
one tiff—of the most trivial kind, she didn’t speak to 
him for a week. Then one night, he found that she 
had taken one of the cars by herself and had driven out 
to Magnolia Gardens—you know, the roadhouse, just 
to get him wild, I imagine, though she had said noth¬ 
ing about it beforehand. William, who was taking 
care of him then, told him. 

“She couldn’t drive very well, and he was petrified. 
Miles was out of town—and he simply brushed Wil¬ 
liam away and took the roadster and started after her, 
about ten minutes after she had left. I guess he tore 
up the road all right. About a quarter of a mile from 
the roadhouse he spotted her car, and at the same 
time she must have seen him for, turning a curve, he 
saw her trying to swing the car into a side road. She 
had been going at a good clip—and the sand was 
heavy. Her car skidded around twice and his car hit 
it broadside—as he turned the curve-” 

Helga’s face was horror-stricken. 

“She was killed—then?” Frankie nodded. 



FRANKIE SEIZES THE LIMELIGHT 85 


“Not only killed but horribly mutilated. He never 
knew that. He got a nasty crack himself and was un¬ 
conscious when they were found. She was buried long 
before he got over the brain fever that followed.” 

“And how much of that does he remember?” Hel- 
ga’s voice was subdued. 

“He can only remember starting out after her. Bear 
in mind that he got out of a sick bed to chase her and 
probably was hardly himself then. Oh, I hate her 
even now—for having goaded a sick man like that. 
Yet he blamed himself for it all—she wound him 
around her finger to the end—and still does. She was 
all that was perfect and beautiful and feminine, to 
him, and probably she was anyway. I’m an awful 
cat,” Frankie added placidly. “—and do you do the 
cooking all yourself?” 

Helga looked at her in blinking surprise until she 
glanced over her shoulder and saw Drake approaching 
them along the sand. 

“Yes, all myself,” she nodded, taking the cue. “The 
cook left the first week—too far from the movies for 
her, and she said it gave her the creeps to be cut off 
from dry land. I love it. Of course,” she added hon¬ 
estly, “William brings in the wood and tends to the 
fires and Drake helps me with dishes and things— 
but I cook.” 

“She certainly does.” Drake dropped beside them 
on the sand and ran a light, exploring finger over the 
girl’s forearm. 

“Look at those wound stripes, Frankie.” On the 
creamy tan of the skin there were two or three red 
burns. Frankie looked at the man with interest. 

“Never saw you look so top-hole, Drake,” she said 
lazily. “You’re as brown as a Portygee and you’ve 
knocked off some superfluous weight. Fact is, I’m 


86 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


not going to extend you a single bit more sympathy. 
You’re well—for good.” He looked at her almost 
wistfully. 

“Do you suppose so?” 

“Know it—if you want to be. Now if you’ll mix a 
little more with your kind and knock off some of that 
mental weight, you will once more be my golden¬ 
haired little playmate.” 

Helga felt a clutch of dismay. She triumphed in 
his improvement—and she was surely not base enough 

to wish him to remain half a man, and yet-? How 

completely anomalous her position would be should he 
cease to need her! The first premonitions of possible 
complications returned to her. She sprang up and 
nodded to them gravely. 

“You two stay here,” she ordered. “I’ve got to start 
supper. No, I don’t need any help—I just saw Wil¬ 
liam bringing in the wood and he’s probably started 
the fire. If you’re bound to do something I’ll let you 
folks wash the dishes.” 

Frankie looked dubious, but she recognized a firm 
note in the girl’s voice, so she sank back on the sand. 

“That’s the girl,” said Drake affectionately. “I 
want a good, old-fashioned talkfest with you—” The 
words floated back to Helga and she hurried her steps. 
Her brows met in a straight line. Suddenly and inex¬ 
plicably she wanted Miles. He wouldn’t let her feel 
like an outsider. Even if he were critical, he at least 
noticed her—thought her sufficiently interesting to 
criticize. Drake had been uniformly kind, his sullen¬ 
ness had vanished in this new environment, but she 
felt that his manner was detached. She had never 
since seen him in quite the mood that he had showed 
her that first morning they had met. There were only 
three of them alone here on the island—yet compara- 



FRANKIE SEIZES THE LIMELIGHT 87 


tively few of his hours had been spent with her. Morn¬ 
ing after morning he and William had taken the boat 
and gone fishing—and for some occult reason it 
seemed to be taken for granted that when the weekly 
trip to the mainland was made, it should be William 
and Helga, or William and Drake who went, seldom 
Helga and Drake. Then as she approached the bunga¬ 
low, her brow cleared. After all, whatever the rela¬ 
tions between them, Drake would have never made this 
trip, nor would this improvement have come about had 
she not married him. To let herself think otherwise 
was to fall into an impossible state of doubt. She 
paused on the steps of the porch and stood there for an 
instant. Her sheer delight in the beauty about her 
had never palled. 

Very distant, yet seemingly ringing them round were 
the gray-blue hills of northern New Hampshire, with 
the upthrust of two jagged mountains dominating the 
lower ridges. The lake, half a mile across in certain 
places, swept on all sides to virgin forests. This land, 
which encircled the lake on all sides as far as the eye 
could reach had been owned by three generations of 
the Gellert family, and had been jealously guarded 
from the intrusion either of the woodsman’s axe or the 
ubiquitous Ford camper. Helga had at first been 
resentful at this cool assumption of the undesirability 
of any neighbors, but soon the wonder of an uninhabi¬ 
ted world had claimed her and day after day she had 
revelled more in their seclusion. The island itself was 
a scant fifteen acres, but the density of its pine groves 
and miniature forest gave the impression of a greater 
sweep of land. A small knoll swelled up from the line 
of the beach, and here, half hidden in trees, stood the 
bungalow. 

No attempt, fortunately, had been made to give it 


88 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


more than a rustic appearance. Even the gardens had 
run wild and the old-fashioned flowers that had origi¬ 
nally been planted had bred indiscriminately with their 
hardier native cousins. The house itself was a ramb¬ 
ling log affair, whose low lines and simplicity of archi¬ 
tecture deceptively suggested less space than it actually 
contained. The screened veranda that practically en¬ 
circled it was used most of the time, except when rainy 
days or the occasional cold nights made the long, 
rustic living room desirable for its huge fireplace and 
deep, chintz-covered chairs. Each generation of the 
Gellert family had fought against the installation of 
electricity or telephone, but Helga’s lips had curled into 
a little smile as she realized that to some people oil 
lamps and a coal range were the last word in roughing 
it. 

A spacious kitchen, maids’ rooms and bath were the 
only other rooms below stairs, but ascending the stair¬ 
case that wound from one end of the living room, one 
found eight bedrooms and three more baths, while a 
sleeping porch ran across the entire front of the bunga¬ 
low. Helga’s room faced Drake’s, across the corridor, 
and both rooms opened upon the sleeping porch. The 
first night that they had arrived she had timidly asked 
him whether she could use the porch, or whether he 
did. She flushed now at the memory of his raised eye¬ 
brows and blunt reply. 

“There’s room for eight cots out there. Is there 
any reason why we shouldn’t both sleep out? The 
whole family used to in the days when we came up here 
for a part of every year.” She had bitten her lip and 
mumbled that there was no reason, and had turned 
away, wondering if he thought she was trying to be 
coy! 

Yet that bluntness of his made him an easy person 


FRANKIE SEIZES THE LIMELIGHT 89 


to live with under the circumstances. So many things 
he blandly took for granted that her first embarrass¬ 
ment had been blown away. He might have been an 
unusually disinterested brother in his attitude toward 
the necessary intimacy of their life. 

Down on the beach a comfortable silence had fallen 
between Frankie and Drake. Finally the former 
spoke. 

“Well, get on with your talkfest. Gossip with me a 
bit, O taciturn one, and tell me what you think of your 
new wife.” 

“Does one gossip about one’s wife?” Drake’s tone 
was dry. Frankie looked at him impishly. 

“Under the circumstances—yes. I like her im¬ 
mensely and if you have any unkind remarks I shall 
shut you up.” 

“I have no unkind remarks to make. She is a very 
wholesome girl.” 

“Lord save us—I call that an unkind remark. If 
my husband called me wholesome I’d shoot him. What 
woman wants to be wholesome? We’d much rather be 
dangerous.” 

“What do you hear from Robert, by the way?” 
Frankie grimaced at him. 

“Changing the subject, eh? Well, how do you 
know I’ll gossip about my husband? Just the same, I 
will. He’s very well, thank you, and the dam is very 
well, thank you, and he’ll come home when he gets 
ready, thank you.” Drake looked at her quietly. 

“Unless Robert has changed a great deal since I last 
saw him, he’s in a thundering hurry to get home to 
you.” Frankie shrugged her shoulders. 

“Oh, I know it. The old dear is fond of me.” 

“Why didn’t you go down with him this time?” 

“Didn’t want to.” Frankie’s tone was muffled. 


90 THE SWINGING GODDESS 

Drake placed a firm hand over her small fist and 
pressed it. 

“Frankie, what’s the trouble? This doesn’t sound 
like you—or Robert. You know how—much I think 
of you both. Come on, now, what’s the story?” 
Frankie gave him a twisted little smile. 

“You know how jealous I used to be, Drake?” 
Drake smiled back. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I got tired of his pulling bones occasionally, 
so I tried a few myself—I don’t know, we got kind of 
mixed up, and—I let him go down alone. You under¬ 
stand, there’s nothing out-and-out about it—and I’m 
crazy to see him.” She sat up and her eyes were very 
bright as she nervously sifted the sand through her 
fingers. 

“Anyway, Drake, I want you to know that I’ve used 
the time well. I think I’ve developed a—philosophy 
that will keep us going.” 

“Oh, you and your eternal philosophies, Frankie!” 
Drake was amused. “What is it now?” She looked at 
him, her monkeyish little face preternaturally solemn. 

“I think it’s one you can understand, Drake, male 
creature that you are. I figured out things rather 
like this. Let me see—I’ve got to sort my ideas care¬ 
fully. It’s rather hard to explain without making you 
think I think Robert is an abandoned monster—and 
I don’t. He’s one of the nicest men in the world. But 
—well, he does do things that hurt me sometimes— 
when he feels genial, and there are pretty girls around. 

“You see—most amorous actions are symbolic to 
women, and they rarely consider them on their face 
value; always the woman sees a—a vast context 
around the individual action. The man rarely does. 
That’s probably why tradition has it that if a woman 


FRANKIE SEIZES THE LIMELIGHT 91 


slips, she falls farther and more irretrievably than a 
man does. Her lapse may be trivial in itself, but it 
signifies a worse crumbling of her—her moral code 
than perhaps it does in a man. Do you follow me, old 
dear, or am I clear as mud?” Drake’s brows wrinkled 
whimsically. 

“I think I get your general drift.” 

“Well, there you have a very good reason for the 
—rifts in married life. A woman, if she is tradition¬ 
ally brought up, finds it difficult to condone an action 
on her husband’s part which meant nothing to him 
beyond the moment. He feels that she is unreason¬ 
able, and from his point of view she is. And he 
doesn’t realize that it is really a matter for tragedy 
and not rejoicing, when she begins to take a ‘reason¬ 
able’ view. For it means that in order to condone 
indiscretions in him, she has been forced to shift her 
whole code of moral values for herself.” 

“Um-m, yes.” Drake sounded doubtful and a bit 
bewildered. 

“Look here,” argued Frankie desperately, “suppose 
your wife cannot condone what is wrong. If you force 
her to admit that it was natural, and not wrong, then 
she has got to believe that it is right and natural for 
her also. You’ve torn her whole code up by the roots, 
as it were—and trouble may follow. Sometimes it 
does. But the man perhaps doesn’t see it anyway, so 
what’s the difference? He blissfully goes on, relieved 
that his wife is a bit more tolerant—and doesn’t realize 
that when he dragged her house from the rocks, she 
built it over on the sand. How should he realize it? 
A man comfortably and sensibly places his own mid¬ 
shore, with a view of both solid ground and a bit of 
quicksand! Oh, hell, I’m getting my metaphors all 
mixed up.” 


92 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“That’s rather a cynical philosophy, and it seems to 
me that there’s a crooked twist in it somewhere—but 
I’m not as good at arguing as you are, Frankie.” 
Drake’s voice was grave. 

“It isn’t cynical. It’s the only philosophy to live 
sanely and contentedly by if you’re married to a cer¬ 
tain type. After all, just to be—well, kind, is the best 
basis for married life. It covers nearly everything. 
Of course it’s difficult at first. Even when I had pain¬ 
fully worked this thing out, I couldn’t control my 
physical reactions any more than I could seasickness. 
I couldn’t simulate—ardor—when I had been humili¬ 
ated by the realization that what I thought was the 
gold coin of love was also the small change of philan¬ 
dering. To a certain extent I have never recaptured 
that ardor. It isn’t counterfeit by any means, but it 
lacks absolutely that—well, spiritual edge that once— 
made it different from anything else in the world. But 
I doubt if he knows the difference, and now, to be 
frank, I hardly miss it myself.” 

Frankie’s tone was fierce and her eyes watched the 
lake as though the placid blue of its surface irritated 
her. Then she yawned and grinned at Drake. 

“After all, isn’t it better, Drake, to be living in 
understanding, in harmony, with a bit of a wee smile 
now and then and only seldom—a sigh for the foolish¬ 
ness we once had? 

“I’m not so sure.” Drake’s voice was noncommittal. 
“You always were so extreme, Frankie. You could 
never see a light anywhere between a star and a lamp 
post.” 

“Then I haven’t made you understand at all, 
Drake!” she cried. “That’s just what my philosophy 
is—tolerant. Didn’t the old Gods of Olympus love as 
we should—lightly and without tears and exactions? 


FRANKIE SEIZES THE LIMELIGHT 93 


They were the half-Gods—ah! But your average 
husband should not be surprised and hurt if the 
half-God goes when the whole God appears. Silly 
creatures.” 

“I remember you,” said Drake slowly, “when you 
were the sweetest, greenest, little thing of eighteen. 
And you used to put your arms around Bob and say, 
‘Bob, I adore you/ in the most extravagant way. And 
Bob said to me once, kind of sheepishly, ‘Gee, Frankie 
makes me feel like a blooming god!’ ” 

“Well,” said Frankie, grimly and rapidly, “it isn’t 
my fault that he insisted on pointing out his feet to 
me and saying, ‘Look my dear, they’re clay, but the 
rest of me is perfectly genuine. And don’t get peevish. 
If you’ll look around you’ll see that it’s altogether 
proper for the average god to have clay feet.’ And 
after he’d impressed that on me a number of times, I 
believed him. So there you are. But being a woman 
and thoroughgoing in those matters, I wasn’t satisfied 
to have clay feet—the rest of me must match!” 

“I know you, Frankie. I don’t believe it.” 

“Drake, it is true.” 

“Then I can’t have understood you,” Drake mur¬ 
mured helplessly. 

“You understood me all right.” Frankie stared at 
him with unblinking eyes. He jumped up and dragged 
her to her feet, holding her little brown arms in a tight 
grip. 

“Tell me that a million times and I won’t believe it.” 

Frankie’s eyes dropped and she dug with one bare 
toe in the sand. 

“Well, anyway, it’s true in my heart, Drake.” 
Drake’s hands relaxed. 

“Oh—your heart!” Frankie flung away from him 
with a contemptuous, jeering laugh that jarred. 


94 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


‘‘You men are all alike—only the obvious matters. 
Well, let me tell you this, Drake Gellert, that as a 
woman thinketh, so is she—whatever may be true 
about the whole damn male sex!” 

“Stop!” Drake seized her again with a grip that 
hurt, and stood gazing down into her eyes. “Frankie, 
you’ve worked yourself into a frenzy. My dear, don’t 
you realize what that means? I doubt if you’re as 
cool and indifferent to Robert as you have just labori¬ 
ously explained to me. I think when he comes back 
your philosophy will go overboard.” 

“Do you think so?” Frankie’s tone was unwontedly 
sullen and then she looked full into his eyes. “Drake, 
I’m afraid—it’s too late.” For a moment he read the 
look and then he averted his eyes. A veil seemed to 
sweep over his face and for a moment the features 
were stone. He patted her hand, but his touch was 
impersonal. 

“It’s never too late—until death comes, Frankie. 
There’s only one thing worth retaining in these theories 
of yours—and that’s kindness. You wind yourself all 
up in your thoughts like a little pup trying to get 
through a barbed wire fence . . . I’m an inarticulate 
sort of chap, but the thing I wanted to tell you was 
to stop dissecting yourself. Think less—and let that 
warm heart of yours solve your problems.” But 
Frankie was silent as they moved on toward the 
house. 


VIII 

Wherein the Primitive Prevails 



HE following afternoon Frankie appeared 
from her siesta with a sketch board tucked 
under one arm. Helga was in the living 
room as she entered, arranging some 
flowers in a squat blue bowl. Drake, 
recumbent on the couch, raised his eyes drowsily to 
Frankie. She eyed him severely. 

“Now that I have had my nap and am up and do¬ 
ing, every one else should be,” she protested. “Drake, 
get right up and do something energetic or you’ll lose 
that fine Agger you’ve cultivated this month. I’m 
going across the island to do some sketching.” 

“I’ll come with you,” suggested Helga, but Frankie 
shook her head. 

“Nothing doing. I’m going to make you pose for 
me tomorrow and I don’t want you all tired out watch¬ 
ing me this afternoon.” Drake sat up and stretched 
himself. 

“Well, I’ve got to make a trip to the mainland this 
afternoon to get some provisions—would you like to 
go, Helga? It’s so hot it will seem good to take a little 
spin in the car.” 

The girl looked a quick surprise which she sup¬ 


pressed. 

“I’d love to,” she answered eagerly. “Shall we 
start now?” Drake nodded, and she hurried to her 
room to slip into a light dress. The village, in spite of 
the increasing number of transient hikers and campers, 
had not yet accustomed itself to the feminine use of 
95 









96 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


knickers. And Helga was always glad to discard them. 
When one has spent the greater portion of one’s life in 
tights or brief ballet skirts it is a luxury to be demurely 
feminine. 

Frankie had disappeared and Drake was untying 
the rowboat that was always used when a provisioning 
trip was made, as Helga came down to the beach. He 
looked up and eyed the simple blue organdie and broad 
garden hat appreciatively. 

“It makes me cool just to look at you,” he grinned. 
“I must admit that while knickers are the most sen¬ 
sible thing for outdoor activities, I like seeing a girl 
look—well, like a girl.” 

Helga seated herself in the boat as he pushed it off 
and jumped in. She did not glance up as she spoke. 

“I gather from that that you are not a—feminist.” 

“Oh, but I am,” he protested laughingly. “I believe 
in their having equal rights all around. But I think 
the modern girl is cutting her own throat somewhat 
in her aping of masculine costume and slang. Now¬ 
adays girls seem to delight in making themselves so 
—conspicuous. That’s their line.” Helga winced a 
bit. 

“Perhaps they find it more interesting than sitting 
at home while their men make themselves conspicu¬ 
ous,” she commented coolly. “It’s possible, isn’t it, 
that they enjoy sports and business and independence 
and comfortable clothes sufficiently to bear up under 
man’s displeasure?” 

“Touche,” he murmured imperturbably. “But I’m 
not as old-fashioned as that. I simply deplore the 
increasing number of ‘beauty contests’ and ‘popularity 
contests’ that seem to indicate that women have lost 
their heads in crowding to get to the limelight. Years 
ago the kind of women who took part in those things 


THE PRIMITIVE PREVAILS 


97 


were, well, labelled. But just a while ago I was read¬ 
ing about some girl who made a living doing freak 
stunts—tight-roping between buildings and diving from 
a mast for the benefit of a crowd of sailors. And that 
girl was in college at the time of the write-up! ” 

Helga’s heart beat to suffocation, and she lowered 
her head so that the sweeping brim of her hat might 
shade her burning cheeks. 

“So all actresses and all circus folk are ‘unfemi¬ 
nine’?” she queried. 

“That’s different. They perform in specific places 
under specific rules and traditions of their own. There 
is a dignity of a sort there. But these women who 
do freak stuff simply and solely for publicity—I might 
better say notoriety—are morons.” 

“Perhaps,” said Helga acidly, “they need money. 
Possibly they weren’t born into a position where they 
could afford to do nothing but avoid the hoi-polloi” 

“Oh, rot!” Drake said forcibly. “I’m not a snob, 
and you know it. I’m only saying that there are plenty 
of ways in which to earn a dignified living. But that 
wouldn’t satisfy them. What they want is a crazy 
thrill and the cheap plaudits of a crowd that is hoping 
they’ll break their necks.” Helga had control of her 
voice now. 

“You speak with curious ferocity,” she said with a 
half-laugh that had no mirth in it. Drake’s reply 
was moody. 

“As perhaps you know, Leda—my wife—was on 
the stage. Even there—the life is coarse and hard 
enough. You would hardly believe the tales she used 
to tell me about the absolutely unscrupulous fight for 
notoriety. The fact that she came through as miracu¬ 
lously untouched as she did was due to an innate and 
unusual delicacy of temperament-” 


98 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“I won’t say Tot’ to that for I didn’t know your 
wife, but I will say, Drake, that there is no more 
coarseness of fibre among women of the stage and 
circus—and perhaps even your ‘freaks’—than you 
will sometimes find in the home or in the office.” The 
girl spoke tonelessly, but Drake looked up and smiled 
into her eyes. 

“Well, there’s no use fighting about a difference of 
opinion,” he said comfortably, “and at any rate it’s 
not a subject that touches either of us. Sufficient unto 
this day that I’m with a charming young lady who is 
all that is feminine! ” 

“Thank you. I suppose that is the only accolade 
any woman should ever desire,” Helga remarked sa¬ 
tirically as she leaped from the boat, refusing his 
proffered hand. Drake flung her a glance in which 
amusement and surprise were mingled. Helga had a 
quicker wit than he had credited her with. And as 
she swung ahead of him with quick defiant strides, for 
the first time he consciously compared her with Leda. 
Leda would have agreed with all he said—she was 
intensely feminine. Yet she had possessed a flailing 
temper in arguments that were personal and not 
abstract. He stifled a half-sigh, as they reached the 
rustic little garage and he searched for his key. It 
might have been Leda here with him now—but she 
had never cared to summer in as isolated a spot. She 
preferred large hotels where she could flaunt the dainty 
gowns that always brought the recognition of inter¬ 
ested male eyes and envious feminine glances. After 
all, perhaps that was seeking for publicity also? He 
caught his breath at this disloyalty, and his manner 
was a trifle curt as he motioned Helga into the roadster 

She curled into the seat with the suppleness of a 
great cat and looked up at him furtively from under 


THE PRIMITIVE PREVAILS 


99 


amber lashes. She had been frightened, and hurt, and 
angry—but she wished now that this mood had not 
fallen upon him. He was surely not so sensitive as 
to have been annoyed at her rather ungracious retort 
to his compliment? 

“I love this part of the road/’ she said dreamily as 
the car wound, perforce slowly, over the tanbark trail 
that cleft the heavy forest. Trees met overhead, filter¬ 
ing a pale sunlight, and outreaching branches whipped 
their cheeks at a sudden turn. The afternoon, here in 
the woods, lay quietly, deprived of its fierce heat. 
Only the stillness of the trees, their leaves as motion¬ 
less as though carved of green wax, and the pungency 
of pine beds whose very essence was being distilled by 
the warmth, made the two realize that the day was un¬ 
usual in its tropic atmosphere. The two-mile run 
through the forest was unbroken by any comment. 
But perhaps the peace of it had solved some black 
shadow in the man’s mind, for as they swung out upon 
the open road, he turned to Helga with a smile that 
was apologetic for his silence. 

“I’m not much of a conversationalist,” he remarked. 

“Neither am I.” Helga was matter-of-fact. “I 
envy Frankie sometimes her ability to chatter away 
and always be interesting.” 

“Even when she says nothing?” he laughed. “Well, 
that’s Frankie. And as a matter of fact, she has more 
brains than any girl I know—and that’s too much.” 

“So you won’t even let us have brains?” Helga 
grimaced at him. He threw back his head and 
laughed. 

“You’re argumentative this afternoon. Don’t utter 
another word, young woman, but concentrate on the 
thought of an ice cream cone while I step on it—the 
gas, not the cone. This dust and these open fields are 


100 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


slowly melting me.” As he spoke he settled into his 
seat, and the car leapt forward with a subdued hum. 
Past isolated farmhouses they swept, dodging pre¬ 
cariously the ubiquitous fowl. His pace was terrific, 
but Helga was in her element. She had swiftly realized 
that his hand was sure on the wheel. The winged 
recklessness of their ride reminded her of one of her 
old stunts. How was Florence getting along? She 
thrust this thought from her resolutely. She did not 
wish to think of her family. She had written them 
several times but had had no answer—and was glad. 
The car slowed down and she looked up to see Drake’s 
eyes on her hands, folded loosely in her lap. His 
glance was curious. She lifted them, and with a 
calm assurance in their tanned shapeliness spread her 
fingers. 

“Anything wrong with them?” lightly. 

“Not a thing,” he said slowly. “I am just filled 
with wonder, that’s all. For a while there I had her up 
to seventy-three, and you didn’t even hang on to the 
side of the car. Either you’ve driven—more than the 
average person, or you’ve never had a steering wheel 
in your hand-” 

“Something for you to wonder about,” she said imp¬ 
ishly. “To tell the truth I wasn’t thinking of the 
speed, but now you speak of it—do you always tear 
like that?” His answer was somber. 

“No—except when I know a safe stretch like that 
back there. To be honest, I was hoping to have you 
scream in a feminine fashion in my ear,” he added 
slyly. Helga smiled to herself and resisted an insane 
impulse to confide in him what it feels like to jump a 
twenty-foot abyss in an automobile. 

“I’ll try to oblige you next time.” 

“For the present you shall be rewarded with two 


THE PRIMITIVE PREVAILS 


101 


ice cream cones,” he answered. They had drawn up in 
front of the village store, and he stopped the car. “You 
get them while I order the provisions—two for me, 
please. And I warn you, that they will have unutter¬ 
able scorn for you if you ask for a sundae. That is 
considered being upstage and ‘city folks’.” 

When Drake returned with his last armful of pack¬ 
ages, Helga was again seated in the car, making mute 
signals of distress. His eyes twinkled as he relieved 
her of two huge, dripping cones, and then as he slid 
into the driver’s seat he turned a reproachful look 
upon her. Her shoulders were shaking with some sup¬ 
pressed merriment, but she motioned him to silence 
until he had turned the car. 

“I could hardly control myself long enough to get 
in the car,” she gasped. “While you were getting the 
provisions I thought I’d look at some material to cover 
some of the canoe cushions. That old man who waits 
on the drygoods counter showed me some very pretty 
cretonne—a bolt. Well, I looked it over and finally 
said I’d take the whole bolt. He gave me the most 
indignant look and said, ‘Wal, I guess you won’t. I 
wouldn’t have none left to sell to somebody else!’ ” 

Drake threw back his head and joined her laughter. 

“And that isn’t the funniest part of it,” she said. 
“When I’d bought as much of the cloth as he was will¬ 
ing for me to have, I asked for some 70 thread. 
Being a mere man, you probably don’t know that that 
is the most commonly used size of white cotton thread 
and one has to have a spool of it on hand always. 
Well,” she snickered again, “he didn’t have it and when 
I asked him why not, he said that it always ‘sold out 
so quick that there warn’t hardly no use bothering to 
stock it up no more! ’ ” 

The authentic humor of this carried the two along the 


102 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


miles in a silence that was companionable. With a sigh 
of relief—for even though the sun was low the open 
road was still achingly dusty—Drake finally swung the 
car back into the wood-road. Here under the trees, 
dusk had already fallen and the quick dew was lending 
ephemeral sparkle to the underbrush. Helga took a 
hasty glance at her wrist watch. 

“We’ve taken longer than I realized,” she com¬ 
mented. “It’s after seven—do you suppose Frankie 
and William managed dinner all right?” 

“Oh, they’d forage around if they were hungry,” 
nodded Drake comfortably. “But the chances are 
they’ll wait for us.” He was driving the car very 
slowly now, even more slowly than the state of the 
road necessitated, and his head was uplifted gratefully 
to the cool about them. “It’s great here, isn’t it?” he 
went on. “So quiet and so—secluded. Now confess 
you would hate to have this desecrated by the average 
camper.” 

“I would,” she admitted, “yet it makes me feel 
selfish. I realize perhaps better than you how much a 
great many people would enjoy this—more deeply than 
you or I.” Then she looked at him swiftly, her nos¬ 
trils dilated. “Do you smell—smoke?” 

His answering scowl was stern. 

“Yes,” he said briefly. “Do you suppose the woods 
are on fire? Or perhaps it’s campers—trespassing.” 

“Oh, I hope so—I mean the latter.” 

“It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other,” he 
said grimly. “With the little rain we’ve had—so little 
that the Forestry Department is planning to close the 
State woods—camp fires may be dangerous. What’s 
more, the type of camper who will deliberately ignore 
all the trespass signs we’ve put up here, isn’t the best 
type of careful citizen-” 



THE PRIMITIVE PREVAILS 


103 


They were approaching the clearing near the beach, 
and now up the sloping wooded incline beyond they 
could see a camp fire with two or three forms moving 
about it. Helga laid a restraining hand on the man’s 
arm, and he brought the car unwillingly to a halt. 

“Listen,” she said pleadingly, “if they’re the right 
sort—you know some otherwise decent people are care¬ 
less about trespassing in open woods like this—why 
don’t you just ask them to be very careful—and to 
please move on tomorrow.” His lips tightened. 

“The fools built the fire up there near the under¬ 
brush—right under the trees,” he muttered, “instead 
of using the beach-” 

“I know it, but suggest they change its location,” 
she urged. “What harm will it do to be—not so— 
implacable?” He gave her a half-smile and nod, and 
starting the car again, manoeuvred it into the garage 
a little distance away. As he closed and locked the 
door, the three men who had been lounging about the 
fire strolled hesitatingly toward them. Helga eyed 
them with increasing disfavor, which considerably 
diluted her first sympathy. One large, uncouth, bald- 
headed man of indeterminate age, who was already 
near them had thrown some coarse pleasantry back to 
his more timid companions. Then he came steadily 
to them. The girl glanced at Drake and saw his lips 
set in a straight line as he recognized the breed of 
wandering tramp that was before them. He spoke 
first, and with an evident attempt to be courteous, if 
firm. 

“This is strictly private property that you men are 
on,” he said quietly, “as perhaps you can judge by the 
signs. However if you’re here for the night, I won’t 
ask you to go back. I must insist, however, that you 
stamp out that fire and build it on the beach. The 



104 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


woods are like a match box right now.” He paused 
and the man spat contemplatively to one side, and 
then turned and winked at his companions who had 
now drawn near—one of them an undersized chap 
with the stamp of city streets upon him even at his 
youthful age. The other, whose aspect was no more 
assuring, was munching a banana, and now he threw 
the peel, with what seemed deliberate affront, on the 
road before the garage. And he guffawed loudly as the 
first man spoke. 

“ ’Fraid I don’t see it your way, brother. ’S I see it, 

this is America, and we’ll build our fire any-place 

we choose. See? And if you’re wise you’ll just run 
right along home like a nice boy—you and your skirt.” 
Drake flung off Helga’s restraining hand and stepped 
forward, a fist clenched. His eyes were narrowed, 
and there was an icy tone in his voice that warned the 
girl, though it apparently made no impression on the 
men. 

“Since you don’t know the meaning of decency, and 
since you can’t even accept a courtesy as you should— 
you can get to hell out of here, and pretty damned 
quick, too! ” For an instant his eyes sought Helga’s in 
mute apology for the only language that could avail 
him here. The boy stepped back uneasily, furtive eyes 
darting from one to another, but the bald-headed 
spokesman stood his ground. 

“Well, there’s three of us here—and we ain’t never 
had no trouble handling a dude and his girl—” he 
cast a leer at Helga. “When do we start?” 

“Now, damn you!” Drake made a sudden rush, 
and his clenched fist took the other man under the chin 
before the words had scarcely left his bearded lips. 
He went down like a rock but only for an instant. And 
in that instant, the other two were on top of Drake, 



THE PRIMITIVE PREVAILS 


105 


gouging, kicking, scratching—in a manner that would 
have done discredit to cave men. Helga backed to 
the garage, her eyes on the man whom Drake had 
knocked down. He was slowly arising now, wiping 
the blood from a split lip. He seemed to realize that 
his companions were giving Drake a stiff tussle—for 
his glance, bloodshot now, swung about to the girl, and 
his lips parted with difficulty in a twisted grin. He 
lurched toward her, and she realized then that the men 
had been drinking. Her arms were closely at her sides 
and she watched him steadily as he approached, not 
making a move. Something in the cool composure of 
her look seemed to surprise him, for he came warily 
now, halting his rush. Then as he made a sudden 
reach for her, she dodged and was watching him from 
the other side of the garage. Her quickness evidently 
disconcerted him, for he scowled now and paused as 
if in doubt as to the best tactics. In that pause he 
saw that Drake had almost beaten off and winded his 
assailants, for he let out a bellow, and forgetting the 
girl an instant, he plunged at Drake, ruthlessly pushing 
aside even his partners in his rush. Drake’s face was 
bloody and one eye was half blinded by a flow of 
blood from a cut on his forehead, but he stood his 
ground. 

“Fight like a man - you!” he roared as they 

engaged each other, and perhaps some element of 
sportsmanship was left in the other man’s make-up, 
for he at least confined his blows to heavy fist slug¬ 
ging. His companions slunk around the two at first 
in an attempt to help him overcome Drake, but after 
an oath and a kick from their partner’s boot they evi¬ 
dently realized that they were only confusing him, 
for they finally desisted. One—the youngest, a pasty- 
faced boy of scarcely eighteen—flung himself sullenly 


106 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


on the ground, and nursed, with a grimace, an injured 
eye. But the other turned his attention to the girl. 
Forgetting for the time her own precarious position, 
she had moved forward and was now watching, with 
widened eyes, the fight that Drake was waging. Her 
first horrified intimation of personal danger came when 
she felt two arms slide around her and pinion her 
hands. The third man had stolen around the garage, 
and had stealthily approached her without being seen 
until he had fairly caught her about the body. 

Paralyzing inaction seized her for but a moment, 
and then the trained coolness in physical predicaments 
that had never deserted her, came to her aid. Delib¬ 
erately she allowed her whole frame to become de¬ 
ceptively limp—and the man’s arms relaxed a little. 
As they did so, every muscle in her body sprang to the 
tautness of wire and she twisted about in his arms with 
the slippery suppleness of a snake—freeing her arms. 
She was safe now, she knew. This fellow with the 
puny body of the street-corner loafer, was no match 
for a frenzied Amazon. Her hands forced his behind 
his back, and with a quick foot she tripped him—and 
they went to the ground together. No pause to catch 
her breath, but with a swiftness that left a ludicrous 
surprise on her prone assailant’s face, she darted 
across the clearing and started to climb a dead 
pine that was but a few paces away. It offered 
fewer difficulties than most ropes, and in but a 
few moments she was safely perched on the lowest 
branch. She would have preferred a higher one, but 
they looked more rotten and unsafe, and at any rate 
she was twenty feet from the ground and in a position 
to repel any one skillful enough to reach her perch. 
She drew a deep breath and attempted to rearrange 
her clothing as she peered down through the gnarled 


THE PRIMITIVE PREVAILS 


107 


and dead branches. Not for a moment had she thought 
solely for herself, but she was well aware that Drake’s 
concern for her was a serious handicap, and that his 
frequent desperate glances to assure himself of her 
safety had deterred him from complete concentration. 
Yet she suffered agonies of doubt now that she had 
fled. Should she have remained and distracted the 
attention of at least one man from Drake? For, 
though the bald-headed leader was spent now and 
fighting doggedly, the other two had recovered suffi¬ 
cient energy to once more circle warily about the two 
wrestlers. 

The latter had separated now for the first time and 
stood lurchingly, with heavy eyes on each other—as 
though by mutual consent they were taking a breath¬ 
ing space. Drake seemed the fresher and more alert, 
Helga’s trained eye told her joyously. Then just as 
he closed in with renewed vigor on the other man, the 
girl uttered a cry and her face whitened. The boy had 
disappeared toward the camp, and now he had come 
stealthily forward and in his upraised hand was an 
empty bottle. 

“Drake!” Helga shrieked, “look out—behind you!” 
But it was too late. The bottle described an arc 
through the air and struck Drake heavily between the 
shoulders—and he fell, rolled listlessly over on his face 
and lay still. The girl shrank back with a sob and 
covered her eyes. When she dared look again, she 
saw the three tramps gathered about the fallen man in 
a rather panicky silence. The bald-headed leader 
muttered an oath and turned on the boy who had flung 
the missile, savagely. 

“What the hell did you want to do that for? Now 
he’s a dead one, and if you get caught you’ll go up the 
river for good-” 



108 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


The boy was shaking. 

“Didn’t mean to kill him—let’s get away from here,” 
he screamed. “C’mon—let’s get his keys and beat it 
out with the car!” 

“That’s the best idea you had since I ever was fool 
enough to take you on,” the older man said slowly. 
“Where’s the girl?” 

As they pointed to Helga, he turned malignant eyes 
upward—eyes in which some fright was mingled. 

“C’mon down,” he ordered, but the man whom Helga 
had thrown, pulled at his sleeve querulously. 

“Aw, leave her alone,” he pleaded. “She’s a hell¬ 
cat, I tell you. She could knock us out of that tree 
one by one. Anyways, there must be a house we 
haven’t seen ’round here somewheres or there wouldn’t 
be no garage. Mebbe other folks heard the row.” 

This seemed to galvanize them all into activity, for 
they glanced anxiously around the gathering dusk that 
brooded over the forest. Helga could hardly distin¬ 
guish them now, and she peered across at the island, 
desperately hoping that the trio would not see the 
lights over there—but that they might continue to 
believe that the house was concealed dangerously near 
them. By straining her eyes, she could see that they 
were stripping Drake’s pockets and that one man was 
stamping out the telltale fire that still burned near by. 
The garage door was being opened now, and at last, 
between muttered cursing and unskilled efforts, the 
roadster was being backed into the road. As it swung 
about and lurched into the road, perilously near 
Drake’s still body, a last oath floated up to her. Then 
the night was still, though long after the car had passed 
beyond hearing, the vibrations of its reckless going 
seemed to linger in her ears. And still she waited— 
she dared not chance a ruse. At last, however, when 


THE PRIMITIVE PREVAILS 


109 


the darkness gave her at least an even chance of dodg¬ 
ing, should their departure have been a trick to lure 
her from the tree, she decided to essay the downward 
climb. This would be harder. She was tired. The 
nervous strain had been of a more terrifying nature 
than she had ever experienced in more difficult physical 
efforts. The dark wind that now swept eerily through 
the pine tree where she clung, smote with a chill her 
overheated body. And all was still on the ground 
where she could no longer distinguish Drake’s body. 
She shivered and then resolutely stretched her arms, 
her knees keeping her perfect balance on the limb— 
and twisted them rapidly to restore the slowed circu¬ 
lation. Then with a care she seldom displayed, she 
sought foothold for her downward descent. 

It was more difficult than the climb, for now, with 
the excitement of flight past, her hands were conscious 
of the bleeding caused by the rough bark. Yet she 
was nearing the ground. Suddenly out of the dark¬ 
ness came a swift call: “Helga!” The girl made a 
quick inconsidered move, swinging about in the rush 
of gladness at hearing that voice, and the branch stump 
upon which her foot rested gave way. Like lightning 
her hand seemed to slip along the scarring bark—and 
she fell. Even in that second her body relaxed as 
does a cat’s and she was up from the ground almost as 
she touched it. A man’s arm went swiftly about her 
shoulder. 

“Helga—I think I just came to. What happened? 
Have you been up there all this time? Where are 
they? Damn them!” 

The girl clung to him a moment with a laugh that 
had half a sob in it. 

“One of them hit you with a bottle—I tried to warn 
you. Then they got scared and got your keys and 


110 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


stole the car. They’ve been gone for hours, I think—I 
don’t know. I didn’t dare to come down until just 
now. Are you badly hurt? You were still—so long— 
so long.” 

He drew her down to the sloping beach where the 
pale reflection of the lake lent a suggestion of light. 
In the gray dimness she could see him peering with 
anxiety at her. 

“I’m all right,” abruptly. “Just got knocked out 
temporarily. But you? You fell coming down the 
tree. Did you hurt yourself? Gad! You’re a brave 
girl. What a rotten mess to have got you into. I must 
have been insane. What I should have done was to 
have let them alone when they turned ugly—and 
chased over to the island for a gun. But I’m always 
so damned sure of myself.” His laugh was bitter, and 
the girl put out a timid hand. 

“You only did what you could. I should have 
despised you if you hadn’t. And anyway—that type 
—might have been as ugly if they thought they could 
scare you off.” He was comforted. 

“I think you’re right there—but I suppose I didn’t 
handle it as I should. But good heavens, if it had been 

any other girl-! You went up that tree like a 

squirrel. Most women would have simply stood and 
shrieked.” He looked at her more closely and his 
voice took on a sharper note. 

“You did hurt yourself coming down. The dress is 
all torn from your shoulder—and it looks as though 
you got a nasty scratch.” 

“It’s all right,” she said wearily. “One of the men 
pulled my dress when I was tussling with him—and the 
bark of the tree scratched it when I slipped. It 
doesn’t hurt much. I’m more worried about you.” 
But it did hurt. Skin cut as it was, the dirt-covered 



THE PRIMITIVE PREVAILS 


111 


fragments of bark that were ground into it made the 
flesh smart unbearably. Drake spoke almost roughly, 
sensing the weariness of her voice. 

“I just had the wind knocked out of me,” he said, 
“and I’m quite O.K. now, with only a few bruises 
and some sore knuckles. But we’d better hop right 
into the boat at once and rush you across where you 
can clean that cut before it gets infected.” He pulled 
toward the shore line, but she hung back. 

“The provisions?” 

“Oh, damn the provisions—get in. Forgive me, but 
it makes me—crazy to think of what you went 
through.” The girl stepped into the boat gravely, and 
Drake started to push it off. Then she uttered a star¬ 
tled exclamation. 

“Drake! The bottom of the boat is wet—I think 
they must have—smashed a hole through it!” Drake 
echoed her exclamation as he thrust an arm into the 
pool of water that was gradually welling higher in 
the boat. Then he stepped back grimly. 

“Stove in! Get out, Helga, I guess we’re stuck for 
a while—unless Frankie gets worried and comes over 
in one of the canoes. I—I’m sorry. Sit down here— 
and close your ears. I’ve got to swear or I’ll burst.” 
His last words held a whimsical note that suggested to 
the girl that with this new disaster he was resolutely 
suppressing his own discomfort in order to reassure 
her. She seated herself on a rock and gazed wistfully 
across at the island, where lights were twinkling now, 
while Drake disappeared in the direction of the garage. 
He was back again in a few minutes, bearing a swing¬ 
ing lantern, whose homely light swung incongruous 
beams up and down the sheltered cove. The curious 
effect of the rays seemed to make the surrounding trees 
seem artificial, like painted canvases on a stage, and 


112 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


even the lake and the sand had a meretricious effect. 
Nevertheless, it cut away the immediate darkness, and 
Helga looked up with a faint smile as he sat down 
beside her. His own face—in the lantern rays— 
showed distorted with bruises, and Helga felt too 
inert even to flush when his eyes fell on her exposed 
and bleeding shoulder. Then he produced a handker¬ 
chief and expertly tore it into strips. 

“If you’ll bathe as much of that shoulder as you can, 
I’ll do the rest, Helga, and just lay these strips over it 
to protect it. There’s no telling when Frankie or Wil¬ 
liam will get alarmed and come out to look for us. I 
don’t like to let that cut go any longer.” 

Helga assented wearily, and attempted to clean her 
shoulder with the cloth that Drake had dipped in the 
lake. But the dirt was badly ground in, and the flesh 
more raw than she had realized. Eventually she de¬ 
sisted with a little shudder. 

“I’d rather have it dirty than paw at it like that— 
when I can hardly see it,” she said between set lips. 
But Drake was adamant. 

“Lean back here and I’ll finish it,” he said firmly, 
and Helga closed her eyes as with a few deft strokes he 
removed the worst of the dirt and laid clean bandages 
lightly against the wound. The girl was lying back 
in the bend of his elbow, and now, as her eyelids lay 
motionless over the tawny eyes, he studied her; dis¬ 
covered with a faint feeling of surprise the really fine 
lines of the features, cut in a creamy ivory—and the 
soft heavy wave of the loosened and amber hair. Even 
in this moment of relaxation, and weariness, her slim, 
long body suggested a leaping vitality. Her eyes 
opened slowly as he almost abruptly released her. 

“There—that’s shipshape for a time,” he said 
briefly, “and all it needs is a good antiseptic. I don’t 


THE PRIMITIVE PREVAILS 


113 


think you need worry about its marring your shoul¬ 
der. Now I’m going to start a fire here on the beach— 
and hope to goodness that Frankie will come out of 
her abstractions long enough to miss us. And if you 
feel up to it, you can rummage some crackers and 
cheese out of those packages. There’s ginger ale too. 
I promise you a good feed when we get home.” 

But they had long finished their dreary lunch, and 
the fire was burning low for the third time, when Drake 
finally admitted that they might as well take a catnap. 

“It must be nearly twelve and evidently Frankie 
believes—for Some occult reason—that we stayed in 
the village. You’d better lie down near the fire and 
rest. Here’s my coat.” For the girl now silently be¬ 
wailed the sheer blue organdie that had seemed so 
appropriate in the heat of the day. She shook her 
head. 

“I’ll sit beside you and share it,” she said. “But 
you must remember that you can’t afford to catch cold 
either. Besides, the sand is so wet, I’d rather sit up 
until I simply have to sleep.” She huddled beside him, 
one loose sleeve of his coat drawn about her. The 
cold, unyielding sand, the damp darkness, the dying 
fire, and the fitful flare of the lantern were little con¬ 
ducive to sleep, yet before long, her eyes fluttered in 
spite of herself. 

“Wake up, Helga—here’s William with the canoe.” 

The girl started, shivered violently as she felt herself 
gently moved from her warm position, and stood up 
uncertainly, eyes blinded with sleep. She climbed 
obediently into the canoe—and as obediently allowed 
herself to be helped out and hustled into bed by the 
much perturbed Frankie. It was all a dim dream to 
her, as to a child who is wakened to meet guests—and 
stumbles back to bed still slumber-ridden. The only 


114 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


real items that registered on her consciousness were 
the cessation of the burning in her shoulder—some 
cooling application soothing to it—and the miracu¬ 
lous softness of mattress and pillow. 


IX 

The Wounded Amazon 

U might at least tell me what you are going 
to call it, Frankie,” Helga complained. 
“I do so much better if I know what the 
artist is driving at.” Frankie flung her 
a swift glance that was quickly hidden by 
the brown lashes. Then she wiped a hand besmudged 
with charcoal on the butcher’s apron she wore. 

“Frankie!” exclaimed the other girl in agony, “that’s 
the last clean apron in the house!” 

Frankie gave an exclamation of delight and seized 
a piece of charcoal hurriedly. 

“That’s it exactly, Helga,” she murmured. “Keep 
just that expression—leaning forward the way you 
are, clutching your shoulder-” 

“Why?” 

“S-sh!” Dead silence reigned a few minutes. The 
two girls were at the farther side of the island. The 
early morning had not yet yielded up its dews to the 
heat, and wet, lushly green leaves trailed listless fingers 
with their reflections in the water. The beach was 
shallow here, with a drift of soft, white sand that 
merged imperceptibly into the gold and green of the 
water—as though by some mysterious process, spent, 
coarse pebbles had been transmuted into gold nuggets 
veiled by tiny ripples. 

Frankie was seated rather inelegantly on her 
haunches, a grimy sweater of Drake’s pulled about 
her shoulders, and as the higher sun struck again and 
again on her sketching pad, she moved along impa¬ 
tiently without rising, like a small, busy beaver. 

115 












116 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“It’s not so warm on this rock,” Helga finally sug¬ 
gested firmly. “Snap it up, old dear.” But Frankie 
merely hunched herself farther down the beach and 
frowned. Helga settled back patiently. Her splendid 
muscles had had excellent training in stillness. But 
this position-! 

A few feet from the shore, and thrusting itself above 
the shallow water, a large boulder was outlined against 
the green of the woods, where the cove made a V- 
shaped turn. On this rock Helga was perched with a 
resentful glance for the adamant Frankie. Her body 
was bare, except for a scarf that trailed across her 
breasts and knees and touched the ripples as they laved 
the rock. Her hair was down, a flaming bronze to the 
sun—not unusually long but as thick and apparently 
sentient to the touch as a brassy shield. One long, 
white arm pressed the scarf to her scratched shoulder, 
one long, white foot tested the water as though this 
naiad were about to surrender herself to it; and, when 
Frankie’s stern glance was upon her, she glared 
between the coppery flanges of her hair as a virgin 
Medusa might have glared, as the fox-torn Spartan 
boy might have glared. There was a still, waiting 
agony in the widened pupils of her eyes, in the half- 
parted lips—the desperation of a soul facing the final 
exhaustion of what has been an unholy strength. 

“If you wipe your hands on that apron again, 
Frankie, I shall jump in the water. Wipe them on the 
sand.” Frankie drew a long sigh and removed the 
apron absent-mindedly. 

“You’re a marvelous model, Helga—hey, don’t relax 
yet!” 

“What on earth is going on here?” Frankie dropped 
her best charcoal in the sand and gave a startled jump 
as Helga slid silently, like a seal, into the water on the 



THE WOUNDED AMAZON 


117 


farther side of the rock. For a moment Frankie 
waited, but the scarf trailed deadly from rock to 
water, and, yards out, tiny ripples were the only sign 
that she had once had a model. She turned irately 
upon the abashed Drake. 

“What’s the big idea? We were just going strong. 
She’ll never take that pose as well again.” 

“You said you were going over to the mainland,” he 
murmured abjectly. 

“Well, we changed our minds.” Frankie was tart. 
“Never mind, she’ll be back when you beat it. What 
do you think of it, Drake?” She was partly mollified 
as he picked up the sketching pad. He studied it in 
complete silence. 

“When you put that in color, it will be one of your 
best things, old girl—the sun on her hair and the 
green behind her. But I never saw Helga look so 
fierce—so at bay, before.” 

“Naturally not. That’s not Helga—that’s The 
Wounded Amazon.” 

“Frankie, it isn't!” Unseen by them, the ripples 
that had carried Helga away had serpentined her back 
to shore—under water now her face peered at them 
indignantly from behind the rock. She had become 
once more, only a big, petulant, direct child, with hair 
plastered back from her face and turned a seal-brown 
with wetness. 

“What’s the matter with that title?” Frankie was a 
bit truculent. Drake threw back his head and laughed 
—and Helga frowned at his laughter. 

“It sounds like The Dying Gladiator ” she said mu¬ 
tinously. “I’m not husky and—and masculine. I 
don’t want to be an old Amazon!” 

“Don’t be an idjit,” Frankie advised lightly with the 
artist’s callous disregard of her victims. “When you 


118 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


pose for me, you’re what I call you. The Amazons 
were beautiful women anyway. They were just strong, 
and warriors, and they would die rather than be de¬ 
feated by a man. They captured their own husbands,” 
she ended vaguely, and then stared in vexed surprise 
as Helga slipped from the rock and swam past the cove 
in search of her clothing. She turned to Drake. 

“That child hasn’t a single speck of the sense of 
humor,” she lamented and then at the sight of Drake’s 
twitching lips her own slow smile responded. She 
sank helplessly down on the sand. 

“Good Lord,” she chuckled. “That last remark of 

mine—I never thought-” But Drake’s smile was 

soft now and his eyes strayed vaguely in the direction 
Helga had taken. 

“She’s really just a kid, isn’t she?” he murmured, 

“and sensitive as a kid-” His companion picked 

up her materials briskly. 

“She’s just the age when they want to be beautiful 
and feminine and clinging-” 

“But she told me-” Drake began bewilderedly, 

but Frankie laughed good-naturedly. 

“Oh, we’ll tell you men anything that’s expedient. 
But I know how to work her. I’ll talk the Amazons up 
’til she thinks they were the last word in shrinking 
feminine charm—then she’ll come around. It’s funny, 
but we cussed females will dress in knickers, swear 
like truck drivers and fight for the privilege of smok¬ 
ing. But when it comes to being put in a book or 
painted in a picture—wow! Did you ever wonder 
why so many girls come to costume parties dressed as 
Cleopatra or The Pride of the Harem or Priscilla 
Alden? It’s to keep the tradition of the old Eve in 
good and regular standing, and to keep our hand in at 
the same time!” 






THE WOUNDED AMAZON 


119 


“You’re a traitor to your sex,” taunted Drake. 
Helga had appeared farther up the beach, dressed now, 
and they walked slowly toward her. Drake picked up 
an aborted sketch that Frankie had dropped, and 
she twinkled at him. 

“Keeping it—or cleaning up the beach, Drake?” 
He did not answer her but touched the lighted end of 
his cigarette to the paper. 

“I don’t like Nature messy,” he remarked lightly, 
and the paper was left a little heap of charred ashes 
behind them. 

Helga greeted them shyly, with a touch of sheepish¬ 
ness for her ill-humor. 

“I was awfully silly, Frankie,” she declared at once. 
“Of course it doesn’t matter a bit to me what you call 
the picture. I saw one of your things once in a special 
loan exhibition at college. I remember the name now. 
It was a landscape. I ought to be awfully proud to 
have you use me—and I am.” 

“Atta girl.” Frankie was matter-of-fact, but she 
caught Helga’s hand an instant in her undemonstra¬ 
tive pressure. 

Out of the darkness of the far end of the sleeping 
porch that night, Drake’s voice spoke as Helga slipped 
into her cot. 

“Helga!” 

“Yes, Drake.” She was a little startled. It was the 
first time that she had ever been conscious of his pres¬ 
ence there. She sat up and peered into the darkness. 

“I’m afraid we’ll have to go back in a day or two. 
We’ve used up nearly all the provisions we brought last 
time, and it’s going to be quite a problem to be out here 
without a car on the mainland. If anything should 
happen—it would be hours to the nearest house.” 

“Couldn’t we pick up something in the village?” 


120 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


Helga was startled at the pounding triumph of her 
heart—at the thought of going back. Did she want 
to —did she? 

“Can’t be done. William walked into the village 
today—not a thing there we could depend on. The 
grocery would deliver out to the mainland, but that 
wouldn’t solve the question of emergencies. And one 
more walk like today’s would put William in a mutiny. 
Would you mind very much? I hate to go back myself, 
it’s been a new world here.” His voice held a gruff, 
shamed note as though he were mutely thanking her 
for her help in re-making the new world. 

“You can carry it along with you,” she said briskly, 
intuitively guessing his fear of sentimentality. “You’re 
O.K. now.” 

“Thanks, old dear.” 

In the darkness she smiled her slow smile, pleased at 
her first admittance to his real friendship. Then her 
smile faded. It would be different back in Boston. 
Drake immured in his secluded apartment, the huge 
house and the big staff of servants—and Miles—put¬ 
ting everything back again into the same old pattern; 
emotions and habits falling automatically back into 
the same old ruts. At the thought of Miles, that same 
queer little sensation of triumph enveloped her. She 
had succeeded where he had failed, and it would please 
him. She need not fear so much his criticism. But 
Drake—they must look out for Drake and not let him 
push them away again. Drake well, and—and doing 
something vigorous—she and Miles caring for him, 
smiling their pleasure in him at each other. The pic¬ 
ture was a pleasant one and she drifted off to sleep 
without straining her ears, as she usually did, for the 
faint lapping of the waves on the beach. Drake lay 
awake longer. He was looking at another picture and 


THE WOUNDED AMAZON 


121 


smiling at it. The sound of the water seemed to make 
a setting for it—and it was smudged with charcoal. 
Before the fury in Helga’s eyes at his glimpse of her 
upon the rock, he, like a second Actaeon, should have 
become a stag, racing from a metamorphosed and 
enraged Diana! 

“Helga!” 

The girl sat up with a start as the same voice which 
had spoken earlier in the night roused her now from a 
restless sleep. 

“Yes, Drake?” she said breathlessly and tried to 
peer with sleep-laden eyes into the darkness. But the 
night was very black now and even the dim lake h^d 
been smothered into sullen dimness at the disappear¬ 
ance of the stars. She was startled at the nearness of 
the voice that answered her. It was a husky voice, a 
little abashed. 

“Where are you, Helga? Here?” She thrust out a 
hand and it suddenly encountered another questing 
arm. Her fingers were swallowed by a warm, mus¬ 
cular palm in which she could feel a throbbing pulse. 
She drew back a little against her pillows at the unex¬ 
pected encounter, but her hand was firmly retained. 
She could see that the man had seated himself on the 
edge of the bed. It was he himself who, by his atti¬ 
tude, had given the firm serenity to her voice as she 
spoke. 

“Your hand is hot. Are you ill, Drake? Does your 
head still ache? Just because Frankie kids you, 
you mustn’t be foolish about admitting it, you know.” 

“It is bothering me tonight—no, that’s a lie, Helga.” 
There was a short, impatient laugh in the darkness. 
“I just said it on the spur of the moment—because I 
don’t know how else to apologize for waking you at 
this ungodly hour.” 


122 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Something is troubling you, Drake?” The girPs 
voice was still serene. 

“Yes—no. You know that talk we had in—your 
room just before we were married?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well,” the man cleared his throat, “after that, I 
feel rather foolish to have to confess something—if 
Frankie hasn’t already told you-” 

“You mean — you’ve been making love to — 
Frankie?” The girl’s hand attempted to withdraw it¬ 
self a little from his, but futilely. He laughed. 

“Good God, no. If you thought that, maybe my 
confession won’t seem so terrible. You see, out there 
on the beach the other night—you remember?—when 
you went to sleep in—my arms, I—kissed you.” 

“Oh!” Helga’s voice was faint. 

“A number of times,” he said firmly. Was there 
more satisfaction than apology in his voice, the girl 
reflected? “After all I said to you that first night, it 
was a consistent thing for me to do, wasn’t it? But I 
was a bit groggy from the fight, I suppose—and you 
were so near and-” 

“Does a man have to be groggy to want to kiss me?” 
Helga queried plaintively. His face swooped close 
to hers. 

“Then you are a sport, and you’re not angry with 
me,” he exclaimed triumphantly. 

“Well,” the girl replied with dignity, “I’m hardly 
awake enough yet to know what it’s all about. Why, 
if you were ashamed of yourself, did you tell me?” 

“Frankie paddled up to the beach so quietly that 
—she saw me first,” he admitted dejectedly, and the 
girl smothered a smile in the darkness. 

“So you really only told me because you were afraid 
she’d mention it first,” sternly. 




THE WOUNDED AMAZON 


123 


“Y-yes. Partly. But—but more to see if you 
really would be angry when you knew. Helga! I—I 
wish I could see you. It’s so damned black here I 

hardly know where you are-” Suddenly she felt 

his hands on her shoulders, on the thin fabric of her 
gown, and as she drew away her flesh tingled under 
his touch. 

Her breath caught sharply in her throat. 

“Drake—Drake, I don’t understand you tonight.” 

“Helga—I don’t understand myself. Have—pity 

on me-” His voice smothered itself against her 

palm as he drew it to his lips. His last words seemed 
to quiver in the night like sentient things. They 
seemed to hang forever in the stillness, a challenge. 
The girl shrank in repudiation of her own quick inter¬ 
pretation of them. And as though the man himself 
could scarcely bear to hear their reverberation he went 
on speaking, stumblingly. 

“This afternoon, Helga—Frankie painting you— 
you were glorious—you are glorious—every bit of 


“You spied.” Helga’s voice was devoid of emotion, 
though her whole body shook with bewilderment— 
terror. 

“No. That is not true. You know it is not true. 
I saw you only an instant before you saw me. You 
need not feel shame, Helga, I—I am your husband.” 
She felt his lips first on the masses of her hair still 
warm from the weight of her shoulders, and then, be¬ 
fore she could move, her mouth was crushed beneath 
his. There was a fierce hostility in the pressure—eter¬ 
nal enemies, battling. Then as his hand relaxed on 
her wrist, the girl thrust herself from him. With 
a supreme effort she repressed the first mad accusations 
that came stumbling to her burning mouth. 





124 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“I—you are not my husband/’ she said in a low, 
vicious tone. “The understanding was—you yourself 
practically insulted me in making it plain that—you 
would not be my—husband.” 

He seemed scarcely to hear her. He had moved 
from her a little but now he leaned forward again and 
interrupted her. 

“Helga—what are you—who are you?” 

Suddenly all anger left the girl, and for an instant 
she felt a certain superiority, a certain pity for the 
man. She was no longer Helga Petersen. She was 
some long-dead woman of the Farnese, performing 
coolly with some troupe of mountebanks in some 
lamp-lit Neapolitan quarter of centuries ago; super¬ 
ciliously baring her charms to the ribald comments of 
the onlookers, as superciliously and yet with a coarse 
frank vigor defending her chastity—not with blushes, 
not with tears, but with blunt repartee—and a slim 
stiletto. 

“Drake,” she said, and even her voice held a foreign 
huskiness, “what am I? I’m not what—for the mo¬ 
ment—you hope, and what, for the rest of your life, 
you would hate. For Christ’s sake, go back to bed. If 
you go, we’re still friends—and we’ll forget this. If 
you don’t—by God, you’ll be sorry.” 

There was a dead silence. Then the man spoke and 
his voice was drab, yet curiously relieved. 

“I’m going, Helga.” 

The girl drew the blankets smartly round her shoul¬ 
ders as Drake’s footsteps receded. Suddenly from the 
far end of the porch she heard a sound that might have 
been a cough—or a chuckle. 

“Good-night, Helga.” 

“Good-night, Drake.” The girl’s voice was cheer¬ 
ful. And this time the ensuing silence was absolute. 


X 

Pied Piper Petersen 


ILES isn’t back?” Helga’s tone was a little 
forlorn as she stood in the big reception 
hall drawing off her gloves. Drake shook 
his head, walking slowly toward her after 
his low-toned conversation with Morton. 

“Not yet, but Morton said he was expected any 
day.” 

“He will be disappointed not to have been here 
when you came back,” said the girl impulsively. 
Drake’s face did not change. Some inexplicable hope 
chilled, some unhappy fear for both these men touched 
her suddenly, and still on the impulse she took a step 
toward him and seized his hand. 

“Drake,” she said, with a kind of childlike direct¬ 
ness, “you are better—I know you are well. Do you 
still—dislike Miles?” His tone as he answered was 
not unkind, but she felt his withdrawal behind some 
barrier. 

“I have never disliked Miles, Helga.” 

“That’s not true,” she flashed. “Be honest anyway, 
Drake! Any one can see it. Oh, if there were any 
reason—but he is so good to you. He worships the 
ground you walk on—and you wound him, you wound 
him terribly.” His face paled. 

“I have never meant to do that,” he said with a dull 
civility. Helga had a terrified feeling that if she 
dropped the subject now, it would leave her desolate 
leagues away from Drake—and Miles. She spoke 
again, but now her voice was timid, and she dared not 
meet the questioning, upraised eyebrows. 

125 












126 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“If there’s some reason—tell me there is,” she mur¬ 
mured. “But don’t you see that if you are still going 
to carry this ugly feeling around, you are going to 
make all of us unhappy? And it can’t help your— 
condition.” 

His face took on the heavy, sullen, half-insolent ex¬ 
pression that she had once dreaded, and that now was 
doubly dismaying because of her conviction that this 
man before her was in full possession, permanently, 
of all his faculties. 

“There was an old nursery rhyme once that went 
something like this,” he drawled. “Will it answer 
your question? 

“ T do not love thee, Dr. Fell, 

And why it is, I cannot tell. 

But this I know, and know full well— 

I do not love thee, Dr. Fell.’ ” 

Helga’s foot was on the lowest stair, but now she 
turned and her voice was vibrant with indignation. 

“You are not the Drake I like, now. That was an 
ugly and unnecessary thing to say about a man, who, 
whatever faults he may have in your eyes, has given up 
the better part of the last eight years, to take care of 
you!” Perhaps he flushed, but the hall was dim. At 
any rate his reply was still cool. 

“We don’t always love where we should,” he sug¬ 
gested lightly, “nor are we always grateful where it is 
due. Don’t try to remake the world in general, nor me 
in particular, Helga!” He turned away, and she 
paused in angry doubt as to whether his last words 
had been a warning that her position was scarcely that 
of mentor. 

“I’m going out to dinner with the Doc,” he called, 
and she did not deign to answer him. But when she 


PIED PIPER PETERSEN 


127 


reached her room, she flung her hat on the bed with 
some vehemence. If Drake were going to be impos¬ 
sible that way, now that he was well! Miles would 
have no shield for his humiliation now; the fester 
would sting and rankle publicly now. Perhaps Drake 
wasn't really well. She grasped the suggestion breath¬ 
lessly and found it the only possible one. With Drake 
well, yet at swords’ points still with Miles, how would 
their continued life here be feasible—why, in Drake’s 
opinion, should it be necessary? Panic seized her. 
What would happen to her in such a contingency? She 
knew Drake well enough to be sure of his making no 
attempt, overt or sly, to be rid of this wife, thrust so 
unceremoniously upon him. But she—would she be 
content to be dragged at the heels of his chariot indefi¬ 
nitely, suffering the humiliation of his contemptuous 
amusement at her futile position? 

She stared wide-eyed at her reflection in the mirror, 
and panic grew. She hadn’t married Drake; in her 
heart of hearts she had married the position of com¬ 
panion, she had married the old house, the seclusion, 
the Gellert name, the Doctor—Miles. All that was to 
have been her life. It was tacitly in the bargain. 
Was it her fault now if Miles’ scheme had been super¬ 
fluous, if his diagnosis had been wrong? They would 
have no right—any of them—to make her accept 
another situation. Drake couldn’t be well—he couldn’t. 
His unchanged attitude towards Miles proved that. 
She hugged that hostility of his to her heart now, she 
frowned at herself for having tried to soften it, even 
for Miles’ sake. How much worse for him if the 
Doctor proved Drake completely normal. It would 
mean Miles’ absolute separation from him, and she 
had seen the cold, stubborn affection that Gellert bore 
his nephew, that had survived deep wounds. Drake 


128 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


wasn’t well. He would stay—of course he would stay. 
Hands pressed against her deep breasts, she exhaled 
a slow, relieved sigh, and smiled at herself in the mir¬ 
ror. The cream of her skin was deeper now, and an 
amber V cut into the whiteness of her throat. Did 
Miles like athletic women? She wasn’t an Amazon— 
slim wrists, slim ankles, and a wide, slow smile. Her 
months with Drake and the week with Frankie had 
helped too. She was catching on, almost too quickly, 
to the code of slang, of taken-for-granted allusions, 
of cryptic whimsicalities. That last phrase wasn’t so 
bad—she would try it on Miles when he came back. 
Would he ever think her clever, or even intelligent? 
So far, his attitude had been that of an amused elder 
brother egging on the lisps of his small sister. 

The telephone rang. 

She lifted the stiff taffeta mannequin from the in¬ 
strument with a little curiosity. Who could want her 
on the wire? Then she stiffened. It was her father’s 
voice—strained, a little querulous. 

“Is it you, Venus?” 

“Yes, it’s Helga, Father. Is anything wrong— 
Ma?” Unconsciously she used the familiar old term 
as sudden anxiety seized her. 

“Nothin’s wrong yet. Kin I see you some place, 
Venus?” 

“Call me Helga, Father. Of course you can see me. 
Tell me now, though, can’t you, something?” 

“It’s about Florence. Mother and me’s at the South 
Station now. Kin we—come out?” A flutter of panic 
seized the girl. 

“I—you can’t very well, Pa. I’ll come in right 
away. There’s a train in a few minutes.” There was 
a silence and then the voice came again, a little apolo¬ 
getic, a little wistful. 


PIED PIPER PETERSEN 


129 


“I thought—maybe—you could put us up over 
night at your house, Helga. Ma ain’t taken a train 
ride for years, and she’s so kind of stout now her 
heart’s all a-flutter. She hates the idea of a hotel, 
Helga.” 

“Pa, after what I’ve written, can’t you see I can’t 
have you here—yet?” She added the last word hur¬ 
riedly as her ear caught a little gasp at the other end 
of the line. “I’ll be in in nearly half an hour, and 
I’ll see that you’re fixed up for the night all right. 
Stay right there near the information booth and make 
Ma lie down in the waiting room if she feels queer. 
Good-by.” She hung up the receiver to avoid further 
protests and for a second she sat there studying her 
nails. A Venus she didn’t know seemed to be fighting 
in her. But it would be ridiculous now, wouldn’t 
it, to ruin everything — with things so precarious 
too? Thank the Lord, Drake was out and Miles not 
home! 

She crushed her hat again on her head—she hadn’t 
even removed her coat, and lifting the receiver of the 
telephone once more, asked the chauffeur to bring the 
car around. 

The August night was warm, but she shivered a little 
as the limousine swung down the drive. She looked 
back at the house. Suddenly its dark, somber outlines,, 
with the dim lights in the servants’ quarters, and the 
sweep of massive shrubbery around it, seemed unreal. 
Drake, Miles—even the chauffeur—seemed unreal. 
It was as though she had dreamed a dream, adventur¬ 
ous, if not wholly happy, and now the car was whirling 
down the avenue of sleep to carry her into reality. 
Plush chairs, Florence’s chewing gum, Ma’s eternal 
embroidery, Ed’s curious rubber socks—those were her 
realities? Never! Her realities were Miles’ sleek, 


130 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


dark head profiled against the rich brown of the 
library bookcase, Drake’s face over hers in the fire¬ 
light on the beach, Frankie’s laugh, a lavender room 
—and a misty morning. Yes, even The Wounded 
Amazon! 

All the way in on the train she sat with her face 
unseeingly to the window, dwelling not so much on the 
cause of her parents’ unprecedented visit (it was a 
vague family feeling that Florence was generally in 
some scrape or other) as on the host of questions, of 
future complications, that this trip suggested to her. 
Was she really going to disown her family? Did she 
ever intend to have them visit her? How could she 
say “yes” to that, when in her first talk with Miles 
she had hedged herself securely about with barriers 
against this very possibility? But as she rose from 
her seat at the station, her lips tightened. She was 
not deserting a poverty-stricken family, she was simply 
forming new ties, since her people preferred their own 
noisy, notorious ones. Florence! The thought of 
Florence was a bracer against sentimentality. Florence 
talking to Miles. The thought was a sickening one. 
Miles would have no difficulty in classifying Florence. 
Ed was a little different. He was so quiet and cold, 
a little bit like Miles himself. Ed always saw through 
her, let her go her own way, stood like a bulwark 
between her little modernities and his mother’s preju¬ 
dices. She had never figured Ed out, but she had 
always been a little afraid of him, untouched as he was 
by the grotesquerie of his profession, sophisticated, 
reliable, born old. 

She merged herself with the group of college girls 
that poured off the train, and unconsciously she 
slowed her steps though her eyes quested eagerly 
ahead. As the first surge of happiness swept her at 


PIED PIPER PETERSEN 


131 


the thought of seeing her parents, some tight, ugly re¬ 
pression seemed lifted from her heart, and a desire to 
read their faces before they should see her, gripped 
her. And as this cold, cautious voice within her died 
to silence in the clamor of her affection, she saw them 
sitting there. A bench labelled '‘Plymouth” sheltered 
them, absurdly enough, these two denizens of a world 
that was broadly damned in the days when a plum¬ 
pudding and a mountebank were equal evils. 

Her mother sat there quietly, a mammoth mountain 
of dignified flesh, her dark, darting eyes the only sign 
of life in the immobile face. Rusty black as her 
clothes were, something in the small, ungloved hands 
that time had never touched, something in the mere 
stolidity of her attitude made it quite creditable that 
this woman had once been La Belle Gisela. It was as 
though the supple spirit of her still performed satis¬ 
factorily to an audience of one, entombed as it was in 
layers of fat that time added unhurriedly and un¬ 
thwarted. Helga’s father was restless. He smoothed 
and re-smoothed the bright tie, unfolded his paper with 
a brisk assumption that this wait for a daughter to 
whom they should be hurrying, was natural and proper. 
Uneasy glances were cast at his wife, pleading that 
she should accept this situation. 

“Here I am,” Helga said unsteadily. Her mother 
sat unmoved as the girl’s father frankly threw his arms 
around his daughter. But as Helga bent to her, the 
huge face crumpled suddenly, and became for a fleet¬ 
ing moment an imposing ruin of grief. That moment 
vanished, and she held her cheek to her daughter’s 
lips. 

“So you have come, Helga.” 

“Yes, Mother.” The girl pulled her father down 
beside her and slipped her arms through theirs. 


132 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Please tell me your news, before you ask me any 
questions.” Her father spoke hesitantly. 

“Helga, Florence has got herself into a mess.” 

“Yes?” 

“She—you know Florence always bites off more’n 
she can chew. Well, a while ago this man comes to 
the house and wants Florence to do a tight-rope stunt 
between these two buildings. He’s putting up a new 
theater—variety—and he wants she should do it fer 
an advertising stunt the first night, and she-” 

“Florence never did much of that, even in training,” 
her sister interpolated with widened eyes. 

“I know it, and Ed, he absolutely forbid her to. 
Told her she’d break her fool neck. But she went 
ahead and—signed the contract.” 

“She did, did she?” Helga was grim and thinking 
hastily. “She’ll just have to break it-” 

“That ain’t the worst,” her father went on brokenly. 
“She took advance cash when she signed the contract 
—and they’ve been advertising it the last few days!” 

“My Lord! Then she’ll have to go through with 
it.” 

Mrs. Petersen spoke and she uttered the words im¬ 
personally as though Helga were rather an alien. 

“My daughter Florence is a little yellow.” The 
man’s face worked in agitation. 

“Ma, you shouldn’t talk so. But it’s the truth, 
Venus. Florence won’t go on with it. It’s come to her 
all of a sudden the last week, and she’s been crying and 
carrying on so there’s no doing anything with her. 
Nerve’s all gone—totally.” 

“We-11?” Helga’s tone was low. She had been, 
once, years ago it seemed, one of the Five Daring 
Petersens, and she knew it was not money, nor the 
contract, but the reputation of a Family that had 




PIED PIPER PETERSEN 


133 


made them seek her out after these long months. 
Pride had kept them silent, pride had urged them here. 

She looked at her father steadily. The cautious 
voice was loud within her now, and the new armor 
buckled on once more. She dared him with her eyes 
to ask that which he had come to ask. He hung his 
head. 

“I—I kind of hoped, Venus, I wouldn’t have to say 
any more. I kind of hoped you’d see what we wanted 
—and do it. You’re a Petersen, Venus.” 

“Not any more, Pa. I’m Helga Gellert, now.” 

“But you understand, Venus. You know what it’ll 
mean to the rest of us—Ed, and Tina and your ma 
and me to have Florence welsh on her contract—after 
it’s been advertised. A Petersen never has done that 
before.” 

“I can’t take Florence’s place, Pa. I won’t. Why 
should I be the goat for her? Can’t you see? Don’t 
you realize that my—my new family don’t even know 
who I really am?” Mrs. Petersen’s face showed a 
touch of animation. 

“Well now, Venus, think what your new husband 
would feel when he sees you doing this! Kind of 
proud he should be of his new wife?” Helga’s face 
stiffened with despair. 

“Ma, you’ll never understand. He’d hate it. His 
family don’t think much of—of our sort of people. 
They hate publicity. I can’t do it—I can’t. Florence 
must just go through it—or not.” 

“A Petersen never welshed before,” murmured her 
father with maddening persistency. “Why, look here, 
Helga, how do you suppose your aunt Tina got her real 
start? It was when your ma found you was on the 
way and was going to spoil her act—and your aunt 
just hopped in and took her place!” 


134 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


Helga sat silent. She knew she was not going to 
yield to the painful tug at her heart. For the first 
time, her mother made a direct plea, she who had sat 
Buddha-like through family arguments. 

“I have cried twice over you, my baby,” she said 
ominously. “I have cried, when to nurse you, I left 
the circus; I have cried when from shame of us, you 
have left your family. If you do not this one thing, 
for your papa, I shall cry over you not again-” 

“Ma!” Helga gripped her mother’s hand and her 
pleading face seemed to beg that this woman was 
woman enough to—understand. Her mother returned 
her look, and her eyes were diamonds, black, and hard, 
and keen. They had forgotten the man. The issue 
was between them. 

“You think I do not understand—you think I am 
too old and fat and too far from your ways to see your 
meaning. It is not true. I have more shame for the 
fear that is in your heart than for the fear that is in 
your sister’s body. Will you, for your family, take 
your sister’s place?” 

Helga sat silent. Something physical tugged and 
pulled at her, some insistent, fleshly bond seemed to 
identify her with each passing moment more and 
more urgently to this grim woman, this incredibly ten¬ 
der woman beside her. Her father’s dependent, queru¬ 
lous indulgence had always been more graphic than the 
silences of her mother. Now she began to realize what 
a force in the lives of her children and husband, La 
Belle Gisela exerted. She lived and moved in the 
strength of justice—a justice more compelling than 
anger, more soothing than tenderness, more adamant 
and reliable than affection alone. How much of her, 
Helga’s life, had been unconsciously lived according 
to her mother’s unexpressed desires? The girl won- 



PIED PIPER PETERSEN 


135 


dered. But she knew now that she was weighed in her 
mother’s heart with as cool a judgment as though she 
were not bone and flesh of La Belle Gisela’s body. 
And she knew a passing envy of one so staunch, so 
sure that he could lean confidently on this justice— 
could know its wealth of tenderness—Ed? A strange 
pang of jealousy cut her and she opened hesitating 
lips, lips about to utter words of surrender. Then she 
half-started from her seat. 

Miles Gellert had passed her, unseeingly, swinging 
with a brisk step that indicated he was about to catch 
a train. Revulsion seized her at the sight of his inso¬ 
lently well-poised body, in which conservatism seemed 
to walk beside assurance. Miles watching her on the 
tight rope? Miles’ lips curling with anger, or worse 
still, amusement? She gulped down a sick, startled 
laugh, and spoke abruptly. 

“I won’t do it, folks, so we won’t discuss that point 
any more. But I can explain a little better than in 
letters, why I won’t-” 

Her mother raised herself ponderously. 

“We will take the night train back, Papa,” she 
addressed the man over her daughter’s head. “I do 
not sleep well now in a hotel. I go to the inner waiting 
room to lie down.” 

“I’ll go in and see that you are comfortable, Ma,” 
Helga begged, but her mother shook her head. 

“Your papa will want to talk to you. Me, I am too 
tired. I say good-by now to my daughter that is 
become Mrs. Gellert.” 

Helga kissed the still face again helplessly, and 
watched her mother’s huge form swimming down the 
room, a human barge in which La Belle Gisela, un¬ 
daunted by her body’s betrayal of her, still watched 
the world go by. The girl turned to her father, and 



136 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


she realized his unease, his affection and his despair. 

“If we’re goin’ back tonight, Venus,” he faltered, 
“I better git the tickets,—’n I don’t want you should 
stay out too late from—home.” Helga pulled at her 
gloves. She couldn’t let them go like this. 

“How—how is your work going now, Pa?” She 
asked this question in a burst of inspiration. It was 
a subject rather avoided by the family, and it always 
brought a garrulous and pleased response when child¬ 
ish expediency prompted the interrogation. But now, 
a mottled old man’s flush stained his cheeks. His 
answer was stammering. 

“I kind of decided to—retire, little while ago, baby.” 

“Retire!” Helga’s first sensation of relief passed 
in anxiety. “We always thought you liked the—the 
business, Pa.” 

“Well, I did, I did, that’s a fact, Venus.” He spoke 
rapidly and looked everywhere but at the girl. “But 
to tell the truth, we got plenty laid away and it didn’t 
seem sense for me to keep workin’, and that’s a fact, 
too.” 

“But—but you liked it, Pa,” Helga repeated help¬ 
lessly, remembering the impatient shame she had 
always felt when he had expanded to strangers on the 
curious and interesting business of rat-catching, a con¬ 
versation that always ended by his casual mention of 
the name that had been bestowed upon him in a cer¬ 
tain notoriously difficult case—Pied Piper Petersen. 
The first time she had heard the story she had been 
quite a little girl. They were on a street car, and her 
father and the stranger had exchanged cigars on part¬ 
ing. She had hopped from the car happily, basking in 
the reflection of her father’s radiant personality. The 
second time she had been in her teens. A high school 
friend had been in the room. She had not, somehow, 


PIED PIPER PETERSEN 


137 


enjoyed the story, and had hoped, breathlessly, that 
her father might omit mention of the title. He had 
not omitted it. Fierce loyalty then at the other girPs 
sneers, and a hatred of her own humiliation. And a 
third, and a fourth, and other times. 

“Something else, Pa?” she said hopefully. “You’re 
not sixty yet, and going strong.” His eyes were still 
averted. 

“Well, I dunno,” he said heavily. “I don’t hardly 
know how it was, but I kind of lost int’rest in the 
work—didn’t seem to have much pep—and that was 
my lay, you know—pep,” with a flashing and mourn¬ 
ful revival of pride, which died instantly behind dull 
eyes, “and I guess I might just as well not start any¬ 
thin’ else—at my age. I ain’t felt so strong the last 
few months—nothin’ wrong, at all, doctor says, so 
you needn’t worry. I just call it I’m through workin’.” 

Helga’s eyes smarted with some emotion she could 
not explain. He peered at her dimly, and then patted 
her shoulder. 

“It’s mighty good, I can tell you that, baby, just to 
sit around in my stockin’ feet ’n not have to do a 
durn thing but read the paper. Ma and me takes in 
the movies ’bout every night, too. It rests me, and 
makes me sleep better. Ed says we’re gettin’ to be 
awful gad-a-bouts.” 

“Really, Pa?” Helga smiled like a little girl through 
April tears. 

“That’s a fact.” He bent awkwardly and kissed 
her. 

“You’d better run along now, girlie, and I got to 
get my tickets. Don’t be sore at ma—and write us— 
as much as you get time to.” She squeezed his shoul¬ 
ders with firm young hands. 

“I will, Pa, surely. And—and I’m sorry, about 


138 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


Florence. Tell ma, I’m sorry.” She turned and 
walked rapidly out upon the platform. It swirled with 
a dirty smoke, coughed up humanity reluctantly and 
swallowed it with avidity. In the half hour that passed 
before her train pulled out, she stood with unseeing 
eyes staring at the dark gate. Engines that roared 
in and out pounded in rhythm to words that seemed, 
curiously enough, her own, though she could not place 
their context. But the voice was now her mother’s, 
now her father’s. 

“You wound me—you wound me terribly-” 



XI 

Out of the Frying Pan 


was beside her before Helga had had 
1 time to remove her coat. For a 
nent she was unconscious of anything 
the lean pallor of his face, the even, 
lips and the straight sweep of his 
graying hair. It was like coming home again, in the 
best sense, to see him, and yet immediately she was 
aware that there was a new quality in her regard for 
him—was it a firmer realization that she too had some¬ 
thing to give in their friendship? Whatever it was, it 
lent a deeper color to her cheeks and a deeper tone to 
her voice as she spoke. 

“Miles!” It seemed natural to call him by the 
name that he had commanded when she had left, 
weeks ago. “I saw you in the station and hurried right 
out. Have you seen Drake? Flow do you think he 
looks? Are you well, and was your trip successful?” 

His handclasp tightened and he laughed into her 
face as he halted the stream of questions. 

“You’re looking superb, Helga, but I suppose you 
know it. Yes, I’ve had a fine trip and it was success¬ 
ful. Brought Bob back with me, so I’m glad Frankie 
came home with you people. They’re coming over in a 
few minutes. The Doc wants to see Drake and 
Frankie wants to display that husband of hers.” 

“And Drake?” the girl persisted deliberately. 
Miles must admit that she had done all he had asked 
and that what further troubles there might be were not 
139 










140 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


of her making. His face was as noncommittal as 
Drake’s had been at a similar question. 

“He looks better than I have seen him for years. 
You—you have done more than I could have dreamt 

of-” He left the sentence in the air, but the girl 

could have completed it for him. She had done more 
than he had hoped for, but his most poignant dream— 
the dream of Drake’s restored affection—was still left 
unrealized. 

“I’m sorry,” the girl said directly, and perhaps he 
felt the balm of her sympathy, for his eyes followed 
her as she ran up the stairs. 

In her room Helga slipped into a dinner dress swiftly 
and with frequent glances into the glass. After all, it 
was luxurious to get back to real mirrors, real ease, 
real hot and cold water. It was one of the keenest 
pleasures in going away. This beautiful room now 
gave a sybaritic edge to her delight that had once 
been absent. For the first time, it was really hers, and 
not the ghostly boudoir of the dainty, mocking, little 
first wife. Somehow, by leaving it, and then return¬ 
ing, she had laid the phantom of her predecessor and 
come wholly into possession. She dared even to study 
its color scheme critically. A rose or bronze would be 
better—but, no. She laughed defiantly to herself. 
After all, these hues were not unbecoming, and she 
would live with them until violet and lavender were 
shades as much associated with her as with any one 
else. 

At the foot of the stairs, Frankie was standing. As 
Helga shook hands with the tall, red-haired man who 
loomed even over her own splendid height, she looked 
into her friend’s face with an almost amused incred¬ 
ulity. What was there about this lank, homely, assured 
husband of Frankie’s which could bring almost the 



OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


141 


glow of beauty into the smaller girl’s eyes? Helga 
looked again at Bob Reynolds and vaguely understood. 
The narrow, pale, merry eyes, the sardonic droop to 
the lips—a droop that nevertheless suggested good- 
humor rather than petulance, had a charm that might 
easily be irresistible. (“And, anyway,” Helga thought 
obscurely to herself, “homely men always fascinate 
women and please men because they look so safe—and 
so seldom are.”) 

Bob Reynolds left Frankie talking with Drake and 
the Doctor, and immediately led Helga into the library. 
After seating her on the lounge, he stood in front of 
her with folded arms and a quizzical smile. 

“So you’re Frankie’s Wounded Amazon! She 
wouldn’t tell me who the original was, but I knew it 
the moment I saw you coming down the stairs—even 
at a distance. Your walk, you know. It’s superb.” 
The girl was amused. 

“Do you always manage such suitable compliments 
offhand?” she queried. He laughed, revealing large 
white teeth. 

“That’s the advantage of being homely,” he claimed. 
“I can walk off with the prettiest girl and say the pret¬ 
tiest thing, without having all the men at my throat. 
Come here, pigmy,” he signalled Frankie, and his 
wife detached herself from the little group with an 
alacrity that rather surprised Helga. Reynolds threw 
a long, careless arm about his wife’s shoulders. 

“Can’t I walk off with the prettiest girls, woman?” 
he demanded. 

“You can and you do, too often,” Frankie laughed. 
Helga studied her curiously. Yes, she was certainly 
prettier, but her laugh had an enamel-like brightness 
that had not been present before. The man tilted the 
small brown face up to his. 


142 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“We’re both homely—but we both have chee-arm,” 
he said to Helga, nodding solemnly. “That’s why we 
picked each other, isn’t it, old thing?” 

“Speak for yourself,” Frankie’s retort was a bit tart. 

Helga felt vaguely uncomfortable. She was endur¬ 
ing, for the first time, that most subtle of discomforts 
—being to married people the ostensible target of re¬ 
marks that are really directed at each other. 

“When are you going to put your picture in colors, 
Frankie?” she asked hurriedly. “I can pose for you 
most any time now—that is, if you need me.” Frankie 
shrugged herself from under her husband’s arm, and 
half turned away. 

“I really don’t know when I’ll get at that, Helga,” 
she replied almost indifferently. “I’ve one or two New 
York commissions that will have to take precedence.” 

Helga felt her eyes smart under their lowered lids. 
The curt condescension of the remark, following 
Frankie’s desperate pleas for sittings, was like a blow. 
She sat silent. Then she glanced up at Bob Reynolds. 
His lips were pursed into a silent whistle and all the 
gayety of his face seemed to have vanished. He 
looked vastly uneasy, and in a flash her intuition told 
her the trouble. She nodded lightly to him and then 
rose. 

“I’m going to follow Miles into the garden,” she 
murmured. “I’ve hardly seen him.” And she averted 
her head from his relieved look as she swiftly crossed 
the room, pushed back the swelling portieTes and fol¬ 
lowed Miles into the darkness. 

She saw him immediately, leaning against the balus¬ 
trade, a dark blotch against the darker shrubbery, 
but though she moved toward him, she could not 
speak at first. Her cheeks were hot, and her lips 


OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


143 


trembling with indignation. When she spoke, she did 
not attempt to curb her tone or her words. 

“Miles, is Frankie jealous? She just—she was 
awfully queer to me just now.” Miles reached out 
his arm and drew hers close to his side. He smoked 
silently, and for a long time did not speak. But when 
the inhalations of his cigar caused it to fitfully illumine 
his face, she saw a smile broaden his features. Finally 
he broke the silence, as he crushed the ash against 
the stone railing. 

“You must have lived a fearfully simple life, my 
child,” he laughed lightly. “Haven’t you ever met 
jealousy before?” Helga compressed her lips. 

“Of course I have—I understand it—some kinds. 
I’ve been jealous, occasionally. But I’ve never known 
a person, and been fond of them and liked them—and 
had reason to trust them—and been ugly jealous—so 
they knew it!” 

“Poor Frankie! You like her?” 

“Of course I do,” impatiently. 

“She’s not pretty, is she?” with apparent irrele¬ 
vance. 

“N-no—but fascinating.” 

“Keep to the point. She’s not pretty—but she’s 
temperamentally a person who worships beauty, who 
sincerely admires it, who studies it and paints it. 
Can’t you understand the unfair comparisons she 
draws in her mind—unfair to herself—even when 
others don’t dream of them?” 

Helga was rebellious. 

“I can understand how she’d detest a—a vamp,” she 
said with all the platitudinous surety of twenty years, 
“but I can’t understand how any sane person can be 
jealous of her husband’s just talking to some one else 


144 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


—some one who isn’t interested in him at all. Why 
should she take it out on me?” 

Miles shrugged his shoulders. 

“Don’t ask me questions no one has ever been able 
to answer. Who would you take it out on—your 
husband, or the other woman?” 

“My husband, of course. No one else would owe 
me that kind of loyalty.” But the girl was beginning 
to cool. Miles peered through the dusk and saw her 
dark eyebrows wing out again smoothly. 

“Oh, Lord,” he said wearily, “everything is so cut 
and dried with you young folks. Can you understand 
how a man could betray his best friend, loving and 
honoring him meanwhile—how a woman could be jeal¬ 
ous of her own portrait, how a man could fight because 
of a laugh or a woman divorce because of a look?” 

“It seems a bit far-fetched,” Helga said uncompro¬ 
misingly. “I couldn’t understand—I might accept.” 

The man laughed, and through the dark, his laugh 
sounded near, so near that she felt his breath on her 
cheek. 

“Then, for goodness’ sake, accept. You’ll have to, 
some time or other. People are queer kittle-kattle— 
and you and Drake are exceptions to the rule. He’s 
sick now, because somewhere in his mind he’s fighting 
something that he knows he knows—and won’t admit.” 

“What do you mean?” the girl interrupted sharply. 
Her dress was light and she shivered slightly. 

“I don’t really know,” Miles was almost impatient. 
“I’m wondering which is the more irritating—an ele¬ 
mental mind like—like Drake’s, or my own complex 
one.” Helga moved away from him. 

“I don’t have to be complex to get the implication in 
that remark,” she murmured, “but I suppose it’s one 
of the comments I should train myself to—accept!” 


OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


145 


“Here, Helga-” but the girl had already slipped 

back into the house. Frankie approached her as she 
entered. Her upturned face pleaded mute forgiveness 
from Helga. 

“Bob and I must go now,” she said hurriedly, dig¬ 
ging the toe of her little slipper into the great fur 
rug before the fireplace. “You know this is his first day 
home, and we only dropped in for a few minutes. 
What did you think of him?” For the first time Helga 
felt a sense of equality with Frankie—perhaps some¬ 
thing more. The hand that she held out suggested a 
gracious friendliness. 

“I liked him very much, Frankie,” she said slowly. 
“He is very interesting—what I saw of him. Of course, 
we want to see a lot of—any one who belongs to you.” 
And she had the pleasure of seeing Frankie’s rare and 
penitent blush. 

A moment later Doctor Mallow had both of her 
hands in his, and was looking directly into her eyes. 

“You’ve done wonders, my girl,” he said. “See that 
the good work is kept up. I’m sorry you had to leave 
before the summer was over. I’m giving Drake a little 
bromide tonight.” 

“Does he need it?” Helga’s cry was distressed as 
she glanced over at Drake. 

“It’s just for tonight,” the Doctor said gravely. “He 
has never slept well here, you know, and I have the 
feeling that this first night—to establish a habit, you 
know—not the habit of bromides, but the habit of 
sleep.” Helga looked at him shrewdly. 

“Is it really that?” 

“Well,” admitted the Doctor abruptly, “he’s a bit 
overstrung, that’s a fact—and he’s feeling that tension 
again between him and Miles. I’d be more satisfied to 
know that he was sleeping tonight. Tomorrow we’ll 



146 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


have a good overhauling and see what else is to be 
done—about them ” 

“He’s well } Doctor,” Helga murmured hopelessly. 
“I don’t believe there is anything that can be done— 
now, as far as he and Miles are concerned-” 

“Don’t worry,” he smiled, but she saw that the 
smile did not extend to his eyes and that his glance 
wandered wistfully between the two men who filled so 
great a part of his life. 

The first part of the night, Helga did not sleep 
soundly. The experience was new to her, and she 
fretted under it, pounding her hot pillow with firm 
young arms, and fighting resolutely the confused 
thoughts that beat, like impalpable black moths, 
against her face. It was unfortunate that their first 
night home from the camp should be so oppressively 
warm and she missed the cooling suggestion of the lake 
waves fingering the island shore. She was glad, 
though, of Drake’s bromide. She thought of him 
tentatively, with a surge of half-maternal warmth, 
lying there in the darkness—so far from her now, 
flushed and sturdy. She had sometimes seen him in 
his sleep with a faint frown between his brows, like an 
angry small boy who has been sent supperless to bed. 
Had he always slept like that—or was it part of his— 
trouble? 

It was more natural to think of Miles seated in the 
library, lean hands caressing the supple leather of a 
book—or perhaps standing silent in the dusk of the 
terrace. He would ask her about the reading he had 
planned for her this summer. What should she tell 
him? She had done practically none of it. Yet some¬ 
how she had lost her dread of his criticism. At this 
consideration her slow smile faded in the darkness. 
She knew that she desired his admiration as much— 



OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


147 


was she becoming slack mentally? It wasn’t that 
exactly—it was as though she had been running des¬ 
perately to catch a train, and had suddenly found—as 
one does in an absurd dream—that she had been rid¬ 
ing in it all the time. That was it. She had vehe¬ 
mently tried to win Miles’ approval when she first knew 
him, and now some instinct had infallibly informed 
her that she had always possessed it. Something had 
told her that tonight. It was all right. She could be 
just herself, Venus Petersen, with Miles, as she had 
always been with Drake. Yet there was a difference 
in the quality of their attitudes toward her. Miles’ 
was delighted amusement toward a charming child full 
of vagaries; Drake’s was a gruff comradeliness when it 
wasn’t an aloof something that chilled her. She 
yawned widely, threw her arms above her head and 
was asleep. 

“Helga! Helga! Helga!” 

The third call woke her thoroughly, and she sat up 
in bed instantly, almost sensing the darkening of her 
eyes with their distension. It was Miles’ voice, and it 
had not been a dream after all. She woke, as any 
healthy, alert animal should do, with her faculties 
keen—but she experienced the age-old night fear in the 
tingling sensation at the nape of her neck. Only once 
out of a hundred times is the night call of good import, 
and the first message that reaches the human as well 
as the lower animal, is that of danger. 

“What is it, Miles?” she called, and shrugged her 
shoulders into a negligee even as she spoke. 

“Open the door at once.” It was open in a second 
and Helga’s long, amber braids, curling fire at the 
tips, swung almost into Miles’ tense face. He seemed 
to barely see her. 

“It’s fire—the servants are out and I’ve rung the 


148 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


alarm, but there’s a big blaze over in Allston and 
they’ve called all the apparatus for miles around—it 
may be a few minutes—quite a few-” 

“Drake?” Helga questioned, calmly. Not for noth¬ 
ing was she a daughter of the Big Tops. Miles’ face 
worked. 

“I can’t wake him—that damned bromide. And 
William isn’t back from the camp yet.” Helga came 
into the hall and her words snapped like whips. 

“Pull him out! How near is the fire?” 

“It’s sweeping up from the kitchen—up the back 
stairs. Hasn’t touched this part of the house yet—but 
it must be eating right up to his apartment.” 

“That door—” Helga gestured to the door that 
stood at the end of the hall and which sequestered 
Drake’s apartments. 

“It’s always been locked, since Drake’s first illness 
—he walked in his sleep, you know. William kept the 
key and slept in the room nearest the back stairs. 
Drake’s behind this door, with only William’s room 
between him and the fire. God knows how near it is. 
It was in flames when I saw it—impassable!” 

“Break the door down.” 

Miles flung out trembling hands, the first gesture of 
weakness she had ever seen him display. 

“It’s a solid door—built to keep out noises, you 
know. You and I could never do it alone—and Sarah’s 
the only one of the servants home from the dance. 
She’s useless.” 

“We haven’t time anyway.” Helga’s eyes measured 
the door and restlessly sought her own room. “There’s 
just one chance—the windows.” 

“What do you mean?” The girl flung him off with 
an impatient hand and almost closed the door in his 
face. 



OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 149 

“Wait a second. Haven’t time to explain. There! 
come in.” 

As the man entered her room, after what seemed 
an incredibly short time even to his tortured nerves, 
the light was flashed on. Helga stood before him, 
or rather knelt, fastening the lace of one sneaker. 
Over her nightgown she had pulled a pair of dark silk 
bloomers and her bare feet were shod in rubber-heeled 
shoes. With a tight little smile at the man, which 
held no hint of apology, but only a challenge to nerve, 
she flung one white leg over the window sill. 

“Helga! What are you going to do? I forbid 
you-” 

Her amber eyes held him in her first command. 

“I know what I am doing, Miles. Stand by to help, 
and don’t talk. Do exactly as I tell you, understand, 
exactly?” He had come close to her, and now her free 
hand seized his shoulder in a grip that hurt. Fuming, 
unwilling, bewildered, something in her manner still 
held him quiescent under her look. 

“I’m going into his window and bring him back the 
same way,” she whispered. “It’s the only chance. 
But chirk up, I think I hear the engines now.” 

A delicate curl of smoke sifted in through the open 
window and struck them both to white horror. 

“I daren’t wait for the others,” she reminded him 
quietly. “Wait here.” He seized her with frantic 
hands. 

“The ladders! They can do it from the ground!” he 
said hoarsely. The girl almost forced his shoulders 
through the window. Down below ran a pale shimmer 
of silver thread—a Watteau brook that trickled be¬ 
neath the walls. 

“I guess you weren’t thinking of fires when you 
planned your ancestral moat,” she said with grim 



150 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


humor. “It’ll take some time for them to plant a 
ladder safely in that-” 

“Let me go—you’re mad, Helga—a girl-!” 

She thrust him back with a violence that sent him 
reeling from her. 

“Sorry—but this is my job—take my word for it. 
Stand by—or it will be too late.” The other white leg 
followed the first as the girl slid over the sill. Miles 
ran to the window and stood impotently watching her, 
cursing ruefully the years that had lost him the supple¬ 
ness she displayed. 

Helga was not as assured as she had tried to make 
Miles believe. The ivy growth beneath the ledge— 
that was easy enough, and she had negotiated it before 
with ease, though Miles could not know that. But 
now terror for Drake, necessity for desperate haste, 
and above all, the floating, twining tendrils of smoke 
that seemed to come from nowhere, that dissipated and 
then formed again more thickly before her smarting 
eyes, impeded her progress. The fumes were sweep¬ 
ing up from below of course, from the kitchen apart¬ 
ments. She wouldn’t believe that they came from 
Drake’s open window, which still showed blessedly 
black a few yards from her. 

“Drake! Drake!” she called. No answer. The 
smarting clouds got confoundedly in her nostrils— 
perhaps she had better save her breath. She was 
nearly at his window now—and her first code was 
never to look down if one felt—well, nervy. Yet a 
sudden strange light that illuminated the walls before 
her caused an involuntary glance downwards. It was 
a horror-stricken look. 

The first floor walls—the kitchen walls, had finally 
yielded to the insidious wooing of the fire. The flames 
licked through to the night now, not consumingly, not 




OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


151 


with a horrid, destroying blast, but with a gentle per¬ 
sistency, an untiring upward thrust of dull red choked 
in acrid smoke, that was almost more heart-clutching. 
Helga shook the ivy to which she clung, with hands 
suddenly grown coaxing rather than fierce. The ivy— 
the precious ivy! Damn the generation that hadn’t 
built the house of cool, hard stone, but bless the gen¬ 
erations that had seen the ivy grow solid and of the 
thickness of a man’s thumb, that had tended it, that 
had watched its choking growth with pride! Thank 
God it was summer, and the stems were thick with 
green juice and sturdy with saps that must be dried out 
before succumbing. 

The girl fixed her eyes upon the black square above 
her, and her hands wove in and out of the friendly 
stems as they had never moved before. Another ter¬ 
ror gripped her. How strong had the bromide been? 
If it had only been mild, she could wake Drake fairly 
easily, and the danger would drive the drug from his 
brain in a second. The ivy was loosening. No—it 
held! With a stifled cry of triumph, her fingers 
gripped the sill of Drake’s room and in a flash she had 
swung herself into its darkness. 

Darkness? Yes. But a darkness that was slowly 
being destroyed by a tiny line of flames that outlined 
the edges of the farther door—that receded, and then 
attacked again with amiable tongues. William’s room, 
then, was already ablaze. She had always imagined 
fire as roaring, but from the next room, even to her 
tense ears, came no sound except that of a gentle swish 
like friendly waves. She stumbled over a chair and 
almost fell across Drake’s bed. As she did so a 
blinding flash struck into the room, struck like a sword 
across their bodies and wavered there. The engines 
were below and incoherent shouts drifted up to her. 


152 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


And now, for the moment, her strength was water. 
She almost hated the man who stirred there sleepily, 
who sat up, running his hand bewilderedly through 
tousled hair. She struggled nearer to him, fighting her 
fear, and strummed him with terrified hands. 

“Drake—fire—Drake—fire!” she half sobbed. “For 
God’s sake, wake up, wake up at once—or we’ll be 
burned!” 

There was one paralyzing second, a second when she 
wondered frenziedly whether all her efforts had been 
fruitless and whether he would continue to stare at her 
in that stupid fashion. Then he threw aside the covers 
and leapt to the floor. 

“I don’t dare ask you how you got here,” he said 
harshly. “How do we get out? That door is locked— 
I haven’t the key. William’s room?” 

She pointed mutely in that direction and as he 
looked his face altered. The fire had found entrance 
now. It was tired of playing with the door and in 
businesslike fashion had thrust through it and at¬ 
tacked the walls. Should they win through they would 
never forget, the two of them, that moment, like a 
scene from a penny-dreadful, when, garbed in anything 
but the robes of tragedy, they nevertheless faced it— 
faced it not even in the peace of solitude, but to the 
tune of shouts and oaths from beneath the windows, 
the futile suggestions, half-heard, of lookers-on, and 
all in the irritating glare of an uncertain searchlight. 

The room was rolling in smoke now, though fortu¬ 
nately the walls were tinted and they had been spared 
the quick smudge of burning paper. They leaned from 
the window. Helga thrust a questing hand down¬ 
ward. 

“Damn them—damn them,” she muttered, in a sob¬ 
bing curse, “they’ve torn away the ivy down below 


OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


153 


for their old ladder-” Drake put a calming hand 

on her thin-clad shoulder. 

“No, they haven’t,” he said quietly. “It’s burned 
away. They’re trying to get a ladder braced in that 
would-be moat.” 

“They’ll never do it—in time.” 

“No.” His voice was quiet, and for a moment she 
leaned against the solidity of his shoulder. “But 
they have other ways-” 

“There’s a big blaze somewhere else. They haven’t 
much apparatus here. Drake, it’s up to you and me. 
I can see one way—and it may be no good. Will you 
try it?” 

“Jump?” 

“Not yet—no.” The girl looked behind her shudder- 
ingly, then up at the man. “I’ll tell you. I’ve done 
this sort of thing sometimes—never like this, of course. 
Will you take a chance?” 

“Of course—it’s the only thing we can take now.” 

Helga looked down below—at the fantasy of lights 
and frantic runnings to and fro—at the flames steadily 
fingering upward. She was not particularly imagina¬ 
tive, yet through her fear ran a subconscious resent¬ 
ment at the grotesquerie of the scene, at the throbbing 
engines, that looked so powerful as they roared past 
one in the sane security of the open street—and seemed 
so puny and helpless from this height. Even the hel¬ 
mets of the bustling firemen now suggested opera 
bouffe to her distorted vision. And the lights, cris- 
crossing, from the fire, the searchlights, the illumined 
wing of the building, only stabbed the darkness feebly. 
She hated the men who peered in obvious and morbid 
excitement toward her window. Only passing pedes¬ 
trians and helpless of course—still she hated them. 
Death should be dignified. This was a caricature of 


154 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


it, and only the somber line of still trees that waited 
mutely in the garden lent any background of silence 
and peace to the tragedy that was about to wipe Drake 
and herself from these new days and hours—that was 
going to scorch them to extinction as finally as though 
their sentient bodies, their vital hopes and fears, the 
whole delicate mechanism of their minds were as 
ephemeral as the bloom on the wings of a night moth. 

In less than ten seconds her mind had slid over 
these impressions, yet she knew that should she live 
they would be engraved indelibly on her memory. 
She leaned out the window, and Drake’s hand steadied 
her automatically. His room, though next to hers, was 
in a wing at right angles to the main body of the house, 
so that her own window faced this one obliquely. She 
called across the triangle of space. 

“Miles, are you there?” 

“Yes—for God’s sake, Helga-” 

“Don’t interrupt. The flames are in this room now. 
Any one with you?” 

“Yes, two firemen—they’re coming to you-” 

“No use—no time. Tell ’em to get a rope-” 

“They’ve got two.” 

Helga’s mind was clearing now with the necessity of 
facing the practical details of what after all, if she 
could only force herself to see it so, was only another 
“stunt” 

“Tell them to take the lightest one—it will be too 
heavy, but it will have to do. There’s a brass rod 
across the andirons in my room—a fire rail. Have 
them tie the rope in the middle of it as securely as 
possible. Quick!” 

As she turned to face Drake, she saw that he was 
thrusting back a smoldering rug. She could barely 
see him now for the columns of acrid smoke that 





OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


155 


eagerly sought the draft of the open window. She 
seized his arm. 

“Drake, please do just as I tell you—believe me, it 
is the only way now. I’m depending on your strength 
and nerve, and you must depend on—on the fact that I 
know more about this particular stunt than you do. 
Wait a minute.” Miles was hailing her. 

“Here’s the rope, Helga, tied as you said, but-” 

“Have one of the firemen throw it.” 

“We couldn’t tie the rail very securely—rope’s too 
bulky and the rail too light-” 

“Throw it—and I hope to God the rail doesn’t slip 
through to the ground,” the girl muttered under her 
breath. “Hold me by the hips, Drake.” 

The man complied instantly, without comment. 
Even as she leaned out, she knew by his stillness and 
his acquiescence that he had no faith in her plan, 
whatever it was, and that only his inability to suggest 
a better, and his desire to give her every chance kept 
the hopeless comments from his lips. She couldn’t 
face death like that. Everything—life, youth, happi¬ 
ness at stake. 

“Now!” she called to the dim figure that turned, 
half facing her from the other window. 

A slanting object hurtled toward her, trailing a 
comet-like coil in its aborted flight. For a terrified 
second, she feared that she was to miss it, but the next 
moment her hands gripped the coolness of the brass 
rod. She turned her head so sharply that Drake’s 
cheek touched hers, she felt its warmth under the 
slight roughness. 

“Listen while I tell them,” she murmured, and then 
called again. 

“All of you men get a good grip on that rope—hold 
it taut between the two windows—good! I’m going to 




156 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


swing myself out, Drake hanging to me. Pull us in 
when the rope stops swinging.” 

“Good God!” Helga heard Miles’ frantic protest, 
but ignored it as she spoke rapidly to Drake. They 
were both crouched on the sill now, and the man was 
coughing. By mutual consent neither drew the other’s 
attention to the licking flame that was within two feet 
of them. Helga gripped the rod firmly, her hands 
close together on either side of the rope. “It’s a sort 
of trapeze,” she gasped, hardly knowing what words 
had been lost in her first second of the stage fright 
that always held her for an instant. “You must take 
hold of my feet and let yourself down with as little 
of a jerk as possible. We’ll swing for a moment, like 
a pendulum-” 

Drake was jerked into stern protest. 

“You’re mad—my weight on your ankles! Let me 
hold the rod and you hang to me-” 

“Don’t argue,” she almost screamed, and then added 
in a cold whisper that chilled the man’s heart, “my jeet 
are blistered! I can hold the rod, but I couldn’t get a 
good grip on your ankles. Your hands will go around 
mine. The minute we swing under the other window, 
brace your feet against the wall—that will take your 
weight off,” she added craftily. “Are you ready?” 

“Yes.” Something calm and final in the man’s tone 
stirred the girl to instant intuition. She peered at him 
through eyes blinded with smoke. 

“If you have any idea of playing the hero by not 
hanging on when I go,” she said with a bitter sarcasm 
which she knew might touch him, “let me tell you that 
you will be responsible—for anything that happens to 
me. Do you promise? I shall not go ’til you promise.” 

“Helga-” 

“You promise?” inexorably. 





OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


157 


“Yes.” There was silence, but she knew the fierce 
resentment in the man’s heart that in this situation his 
strength must be subordinate to her wit—that he 
must, for her own sake, allow her to lead. With diffi¬ 
culty, they both now crouched on the open sill, and 
the man’s hands circled her ankles—a muttered im¬ 
precation from him as his fingers were aware of the 
blistered flesh he gripped. Quickly she stretched her¬ 
self upright, her back curved against the casing, hands 
upraised as though for a dive. 

“Are you ready?” she called, and now there was no 
quiver in the clarity of her voice. She listened, and 
heard through the confusion a terse assent from the 
other window. The searchlight again stabbed upwards 
and struck her, so that she stood as though borne up 
by a rosy column of smoke. He had swung himself to 
the outermost edge of the sill and was seated pre¬ 
cariously, his back to the open window, and his hands 
were steady and light on her ankles. 

“One, two, three—” her lips moved unconsciously, 
and then cleanly, she made a side and outward jump, 
the first beautiful arc of her flight marred as the man’s 
body followed hers. Her ankles—torture! Then a 
jar, as the man’s body struck the side of the house. 
They had swung a little past the other window. Almost 
instantly, the tearing pull of her body, endured down¬ 
wards from the slender waist, was relieved, and almost 
before her twirling shoulders had come in contact with 
the shingled walls, she was pulled free of them. That 
meant that Drake had braced his feet against the side 
of the house, removing part of his weight. The worst 
was over, but her hands grew weak. Was she going to 
fail now, at the last moment? How still it was below, 
suddenly. Or perhaps the hiss of the great hose as it 
poured its contents into the window she had just left, 


158 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


drowned all other sounds. She threw back her head, 
and her eyes implored those above her. 

“You can pull us up now, and quickly,” her voice 
died faintly as she felt herself jerked upward, so 
slowly, it seemed, that the whole process was like the 
inane terror of a nightmare. 

Drake’s anxious voice came from below. Had he 
felt the dangerous relaxation throughout her frame? 
“I’d better let go, old dear. I can make it safely.” 

“No—no!” she screamed, and at once her whole 
body was suffused with a new vitality. “We are mak¬ 
ing it beautifully—don’t spoil it now, Drake.” 

“Righto. I’m walking up the house, slow but sure. 
Oh, my dear, your poor feet!” 

“Never mind—I’m nearly there, Drake. Oh, thank 
God!” With the most sincere prayer she had ever 
uttered Helga felt strong hands grip her arms and 
gently lift her over the window sill. Like a dream, 
like a dream. 

The electric lights had been blown by this time, but 
some one—old Sarah—had illumined the room with 
candles. This part of the house was buttressed se¬ 
curely against the fire by the unending streams of 
water in the halls, and only the dampness of one 
wall marred the almost grotesquely undisturbed room. 
There were people everywhere. She sank down on 
the chaise longue. Some one, was it Drake? Yes, 
Drake was gently trying to pry her fingers from some¬ 
thing that she must retain at all costs. What was it? 
The rod. And as she at last released it, with an apolo¬ 
getic air, it seemed that all her strength had seeped 
through the tips of her fingers—had gone from her 
into the brass. It disappeared and she crumpled down, 
one listless hand vaguely nursing her ankles. 

Where was everybody now? No one but Drake, 


OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


159 


and Sarah and Miles—and Miles was bothering her 
about something. She shook her shoulders irritably 
and then became aware that he had been speaking. 

“Your wrap, Helga. You must put it on—and your 
slippers.” 

“I’m so hot-” 

“My dear, you are—half stripped.” Her senses 
sharpened to the note of irritation in his voice, and she 
leaned forward obediently to accept the wrap, but with 
the casual, abstracted air of a circus performer just 
out of the ring. She was hardly conscious of Drake’s 
forcible exclamation. 

“For heaven’s sake, don’t be a prude at a time like 
this, Miles!” 

Helga was only absorbed in the peace of this spa¬ 
cious room, and savoring a pleasure in its very near¬ 
ness to the inferno that was being successfully fought a 
few yards away. Candles. Dozens of them. How 
feebly they flickered, now that the window had been 
closed against the smoke. Strange how mild and 
comforting a blaze could be—confined to such waxen 
tips. Their appearance lent still greater unreality to 
the room, making Pierrot-like shadows of the men’s 
figures, and blotching Sarah’s pendulous cheeks clown¬ 
ishly—cheeks that quivered now in sympathy as the 
old woman tremulously applied some of the ointment 
to the girl’s feet and ankles. Helga put out a gentle 
hand. 

“That’s enough, Sarah. You’re looking done up 
with excitement. Run along to bed. Is the house safe 
now?” she queried of Drake who still stood tirelessly 
and silent, beside her. He in turn questioned Miles 
with uplifted eyebrows and the latter nodded. 

“It’s O.K.—now that they’ve been able to turn the 
hose into your room,” he said slowly, “but they say— 



160 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


if you hadn’t done what you did, you’d probably not 
have made it at all. They got out a net, but it would 
have been useless, with the flames along the lower wall 
bursting out all the time.” He seized Helga’s hands in 
a grip that hurt her swollen fingers. 

“We’re not going to thank you tonight, little girl. 
What you need is sleep now. Frankie is waiting to 
take you over there.” 

Helga looked up with the petulant unreason of a sick 
child who hates to be moved. 

“Can’t I stay here?” 

Drake, who had moved to the hall for an instant’s 
consultation with one of the firemen interrupted 
briskly. 

“They say it’s absolutely safe now, if you want to 
stay, Helga.” 

Miles was adamant. 

“She shouldn’t be exposed to the nervous strain of 
sleeping here tonight.” 

“She stood one nervous strain pretty well,” his 
nephew answered him dryly. For a moment the two 
men faced each other. Then the color slowly ebbed 
from Miles’ face. He turned his hands outward and 
then dropped them by his side. 

“I suppose I deserve that, Drake,” the life was 
gone from his voice. “God knows that what little I 
could do would never have saved you.” The girl, 
between them, saw the real suffering that aged the 
features of the older man. Perhaps Drake saw it too, 
for he took a reluctant step forward. 

“I—didn’t mean it that way, Miles,” he said break¬ 
ing through his habitual attitude with difficulty. “You 
know—I have never accused you of cowardice.” 

“Thank you.” Helga, who had expected Miles’ 
face to lighten, saw with wonder that the lines of his 


OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


161 


jaw only grew deeper. He hesitated, seemed to be 
about to speak again and then abruptly turned and 
left the room. The door clicked. 

Drake suddenly dropped to his knees beside the 
couch. Over his shoulder the girl could see their re¬ 
flections in the long cheval glass. Drake was only a 
looming shadow in his dark dressing gown, but the 
candles at her side seemed to make of her own face an 
oval blur of ivory, small and tired between the drag¬ 
ging ropes of bronze hair. The man’s action had star¬ 
tled her with its unusualness. She turned heavy eyes 
to his, and allowed her fingers to relax in his questing 
hands. His face was close to hers, so close that she 
could see every line of that anxious frown of his. The 
expression was so characteristic that her slight wonder 
vanished. 

“Vm going to thank you tonight, Helga,” he said in 
a low voice. “I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t. I’m too 
—too inarticulate to say what I ought to say. But 
I’m glad—glad that you’re my wife. I couldn’t bear 
to owe to any one else what I owe to you tonight-” 

“Don’t—I understand, Drake.” 

“I know you do—and you’re tired, too,” he said with 
quick remorse. 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll be across the hall—you’re perfectly safe, but 
don’t dare to lie awake if you’re nervous. Do you want 
Sarah to sleep up here with you?” Helga smiled 
faintly. 

“I think she rushed downstairs to have hysterics,” 
she replied. His hands tightened on hers. 

“Promise you’ll call me, if you need something or 
feel sick,” he insisted, like a small boy whose desperate 
eagerness outweighs the meagerness of his assistance. 
Helga’s smile warmed. 



162 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“I promise.” For the life of her she could talk only 
in brief phrases, yet in spite of her weariness she found 
it pleasant, this conversation in the early hours of the 
morning. This person who was clinging to her hands 
had been through the nightmare with her—they had 
won through it together and now they were lingering 
on the edge of their dream. Then he shattered her 
drugged ease with four words. 

“Who are you, Helga?” There was a hoarseness in 
his voice and he seemed to wait her answer tensely. 
“Who are you? No one has said—and I haven’t 
cared before, but now I want to know—everything 
about you. I must know. You don’t mind?” 

The girl sat up, flinging from her the last cobwebs 
of her listlessness. Every sense was alert. 

“Not tonight, Drake. I’m dead.” 

He rose reluctantly. 

“Tomorrow?” 

She pushed him gently but inexorably toward the 
door. 

“You will have to ask your uncle,” she said mildly. 
“But remember—I have asked you no questions.” His 
hand was on the knob of the door. His eyes rested on 
hers steadily as he replied. 

“You may ask me all you wish. We will talk to¬ 
morrow. Good-night, Helga.” 

“Good-night, Drake.” Until the door closed the 
girl remained composed, with the composure and still¬ 
ness of an animal that suddenly scents pursuit. But 
the moment that she was alone she whirled and faced 
her own terrified eyes in the mirror. Drake would not 
be an easy proposition. Already she knew his quiet 
stubbornness. He would keep the spirit of the con¬ 
tract though, when he knew the details. Just the same 
—she had seen him come into his masculine estate, the 


OUT OF THE FRYING PAN 


163 


right to knowledge of his own property—a moment 
since. Even his boyish, sullen frown had vanished, 
smoothed into the steadiness of complete maturity. 
She stumbled into this realization by intuition rather 
than logic, but it obsessed her as she blew the candles 
out one by one, pinching the soft wax in the first physi¬ 
cal timidity she had ever known. 

Alone in the dark she tried to assemble her thoughts, 
to plan her defenses and the strengthening of them. 
But the damp mustiness of the air from the open win¬ 
dow, air still pregnant with the conquered smoke, 
seemed to act as an instant drug. Sleep smothered 
her. 


XII 

Nettles 


HE next few days were curious ones for 
Helga. The following morning she had 
escaped hurriedly to Frankie’s, soon after 
breakfast, avoiding Miles’ evident deter¬ 
mination to discuss the whole affair. 

“But the carpenters are coming in an hour or two,” 
he argued, in a vain attempt to detain her. “Don’t you 
want to oversee or plan some changes in the rooms? 
The paper hangers will be doing your rooms, too. Do 
you want the same color scheme followed?” 

Helga hesitated. 

“No,” she said finally, “I’d prefer something dif¬ 
ferent. But of course it’s really your decision—it’s 
your house.” He winced a little at that. 

“Are you going to adopt Drake’s tone about all 
household or family matters?” he queried with an 
attempt at lightness. She was instantly contrite. 

“Of course not, Miles. I’ll talk to the paperer 
about my room myself. But you can let me know 
when he’s here—it probably won’t be today. And the 
other arrangments—well, they’re really for you and 
Drake.” Then she let her eyes meet his. 

“The real reason I’m going to desert you for a while 
is—is that I want you to talk to Drake before he sees 
me again.” 

“Yes?” 

“Last night—after you left, he suddenly asked me 
to tell him something about myself—who I really am.” 

164 










NETTLES 


165 


She eyed him reproachfully. “You didn’t tell me, 
Miles, that Drake knew nothing about our agreement.” 
Miles stirred his coffee reflectively. 

“I didn’t. But Drake wasn’t interested, didn’t want 
to hear anything about it—just wanted to get it over 
with. In one of his confounded moods then, of course, 
when he hated himself and everybody for having had a 
—relapse. Besides, I admit I hoped that if and when 
the question came up, you might have changed your 
mind about telling us-” 

“I haven’t.” 

“So I see.” Then he looked at her and in his eyes 
she read a faint mockery. “I see you are going to 
remain our family Mona Lisa. But—” and with a 
sudden movement he pushed the paper toward her, 
“have you seen the morning news?” 

Helga turned to the front pages shrinkingly. There 
they were, of course, in glaring headlines, the various 
stories of the daring escape of Drake Gellert and his 
wife—and a gloating account of the spectacular 
method by which it had been effected. Fortunately, 
Helga saw, with a deep breath of relief, the accounts 
were somewhat garbled, and left the reader in doubt 
as to whether the escape had been engineered by man 
or woman. Moreover, since the reporters’ attempts 
at gaining much information had been tactfully 
thwarted, the accounts were both vague and imagina¬ 
tive as to the history of Mrs. Drake Gellert. It was 
obvious, that to the Boston mind, the name and story 
of Drake Gellert was considered more savory, and 
almost as many paragraphs about his first wife had 
artlessly padded the story. One of the more saffron 
journals had allowed its artist full sway in a pen-and 
ink sketch depicting a man suspended in mid-air from 
an iron chain, while to the coat tails of his full-dress 



166 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


suit hung a screaming beauty in flowing night robe and 
Nell Brinkley curls. 

Helga pushed the papers from her. After all, there 
was little there that she need to fear. She smiled 
across at Miles. 

“Ridiculous! But really, Miles, will you talk to 
Drake so he won’t pump me?” 

“I suppose I should—will you be at Frankie’s over 
night?” 

“I’ll be there until they get that wing cleaned up. 
But I’ll be back and forth across the garden a dozen 
times a day if you need my expert advice.” As she 
spoke she rose and flung her arms wide. 

“Glorious August! I hate to think of fall—though 
it would be wonderful up at camp. Here in the city it 
rather sneaks in apologetically. I’m going to run now 
before Drake gets down for breakfast.” 

“I have all the duties of a conspirator without the 
advantages of being let in on any of the secrets,” Miles 
objected whimsically. Helga flushed. 

“I’m the little girl in the fairy story who had to 
sew on a coat of nettles and be dumb for seven years 
in order to save her brothers from their wicked en¬ 
chantment.” 

“I wonder,” Miles’ tone was lazy, but his look was 
keen. “I wonder if it is anything as noble as that?” 

She did not answer him, for she was half way down 
the steps, but she had heard and her cheeks burned as 
she ran down the flags of the garden path. Her re¬ 
mark had been hypocritical. 

Frankie met her with open arms, figuratively at 
least, and seemed in her unobtrusive solicitude, com¬ 
pletely the girl whom Helga had first met. The next 
two or three days ambled by pleasantly enough. The 
two girls went swimming each day and twice took 


NETTLES 


167 


Robert and Drake with them, but at no time did Helga 
see her husband alone, nor did he, by any word or 
look, suggest that he was only biding his time before 
questioning her again. Miles must have spoken— 
adequately. 

“My room is finished today,” Helga remarked to 
Frankie with a yawn one afternoon as they both 
dropped into easy chairs on the veranda of the latter’s 
home. The day was still warm and their swimming 
hour had been a long one. “I shall be returning 
tonight.” 

“Why hurry?” Frankie was comfortably searching 
for a cigarette. 

“Must. Miles and Drake hit it off better when I 
am there.” 

“Well, the three of you have got to come with Bob 
and me this evening,” Frankie announced positively. 

“What’s up?” 

Frankie rubbed the damp hair about her forehead 
vigorously. 

“Some chap whom Bob met on his way back from 
South America is having an ‘artistic’ evening at his 
studio in town. His wife sings, he plays the violin— 
passably, Bob says—though they’re both planning to 
burst into professional work soon. Aren’t I catty? 
At any rate, Bob says that young Forbes is a regular 
fellow, though a wow as a violinist. But wifie has 
reached the stage of collecting celebrities—and she 
compliments me by insisting on my presence. Told us 
to bring friends. There’ll be a little bit of everything. 
‘Us artists’ stuff you know, and probably I shall be 
called upon to do a quick sketch of some roaring lion 
there. It’ll be amusin’ anyway, Helga. You folks 
must come and see the animals perform.” 

Helga was interested. 


168 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“What will it be like?” she queried in a slightly 
awed tone. Frankie chortled. 

“Dim lights and divans. Signed photographs all 
over the place. Piano pieces that breathed o’er Eden 
—some unclothed poetry, fat ladies making putty 
statuettes for an admiring circle—and the faint incense 
of cocktails over all.” 

“Drinks?” 

“Yes. Don’t you?” 

“No.” 

“Good girl, don’t. Bob will do plenty for all of us. 
Won’t you, old dear?” Frankie raised her voice pla¬ 
cidly as her husband came forward from the door and 
flung himself on the low chair beside her. He made a 
grimace and looked plaintively at Helga. 

“For some reason or other, the old dirk has been out 
for me ever since I dashed home from South America 
to see my sweetie. I can’t figure the reason, can you, 
Helga?” Helga smiled lazily but said nothing. She 
was vaguely uncomfortable. Why the devil, with these 
two people who were obviously devoted, did one feel 
that little undercurrent of hostility between them? 
Frankie was frowning, but Bob did not heed the storm 
gathering between her brows. He went on teasingly. 

“Frankie’s always telling me to be frank, to be— 
er—painfully frank with her. And when I am—wow! 
I ask you, Helga, is this fair? I am solemnly enjoined 
to write to my broad-minded wife and tell her every 
durned thing I do while I’m gone, to describe in zest¬ 
ful detail every party to which—as a good business 
man—I am forced to go. After ten years of the goodly 
institution of marriage I am still as innocent as a 
young lamb—and I write. Then what happens? Not 
an answering letter—until I’m so worried that I throw 
up the tag ends of my business to run home and hold 


NETTLES 


169 


her cunning little paw. And how am I greeted? 
Instead of killing the fatted calf, she kills the prodi¬ 
gal son! Tell me the way to thy graces, oh She-Who- 
Must-Be-Obeyed!” He seized his wife’s hand and im¬ 
printed a burlesque kiss of humility upon it. Frankie 
jerked it away. 

“If you must air all your matrimonial wit for Hel- 
ga’s benefit, I’m willing,” she said ominously, “only 
go whole hog. Tell her about the night you never came 
home at all—and about the little Spanish girl who ran 
away from home and asked you to bring her north— 
and above all, about the screamingly humorous situa¬ 
tion that was developed when you and Senora Cartaya 
misunderstood each other so fatally—due to your lack 
of Spanish and her lack of English. And your diffi¬ 
culty in explaining the whole matter to her husband 
the next day! ” Bob raised his head and peered around 
at Frankie in doleful surprise. 

“I say, funny face, you’re really ready to bite, aren’t 
you?” Her lips tightened. Then she shrugged. 

“I wouldn’t have been annoyed at anything you 
told me—if your attitude about them were a little bit 
different. With your masculine smugness, you’re al¬ 
ways saying to yourself, ‘There! That’s what you get 
for telling a woman anything.’ The point is any— 
any decent man wouldn’t take them all as a joke. He 
—he’d be sorry they happened—instead of roaring 
over them like a blooming jackass, and writing letters 
telling them in the would-be vein of Ring Lardner!” 

Bob reared his whole lank body to a more erect 
position. His face had whitened a little through his 
freckles. 

“And now your tongue is runnin’ away with itself, 
little one,” he spoke with difficulty. “Are you inti¬ 
matin’ you’re not married to a decent man?” By 


170 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


Frankie’s petulant pout and the nervousness of her 
little hands, Helga realized that she knew she had 
said too much—and was sorry. Helga herself tried to 
become invisible in her chair, miserably uncomfort¬ 
able at witnessing this passage of arms. But Bob 
Reynolds was aroused now, and unwilling to drop the 
incident that had developed so disproportionately. 

“By God,” he said thickly, “I’m damned if I can 
make you women out. You know that if I’ve ever 
been a fool, it’s been in the open—where you could 
grab me by the ear and work off your little tempers. 
Yet I get it in the neck all the time, though if I wanted 
to be the sort you seem to think, and cared about being 
a smooth worker, I’d have you eating out of my hand. 
You pull this sob stuff on Helga here—and Miles 
too. The only reason you don’t with Drake is because 
he knows you, and me too—and he isn’t taking 
any!” 

“Robert!” Frankie’s tone was sharp, but Bob was 
not to be halted now. 

“Miles—” he said bitterly, “he’s a good confidant 
now, isn’t he? Believe me, he and the Senora Cartaya 
didn’t misunderstand each other any! Miles and his 
heavy paternal stuff—huh!” 

“Just what do you mean by that, Robert Reynolds?” 

“I don’t mean anything,” Bob muttered, a little 
dashed at the situation into which he had led himself. 
“I only mean that I wish you’d compare me favorably 
with other men once in a while—just once in a while, 
that’s all I ask. I’m no bloomin’ saint, but I’m 
damned if I’m goin’ to wear horns and hoofs for you 
or any one else. By God, if any man ever got the 
name, and not the game, I’m the poor fish!” But 
Frankie was already side-tracked from an emotion 
which had become a more or less familiar one. She 


NETTLES 


171 


persisted, and Helga could not fathom the side glance 
which was flung at her. 

“ Miles likes the ladies, poor old dear, doesn’t he, 
Bob?” she purred. “Has he really had a Spanish love 
affair?” 

Bob looked at her suspiciously. 

“He’s a poor old dear when he has a love affair, is 
he?” he grumbled. “And I’m a poor old goat.” 
Frankie had recovered her placidity and now she 
wormed her hand into Bob’s. 

“My love, he’s not a married man.” 

“Good thing he isn’t,” muttered Bob, still incensed. 
“If you were married to him, you green-eyed little 
cat, you’d be hanging over my back fence, begging me 
to take you away from your suave sheik. But I’d 
laugh heartlessly at you and stride away—because I’m 
not the kind of a man to dally with married women!” 

“Laugh that off,” Frankie murmured to herself, then 
she smiled bewitchingly up at her husband. 

“Are my eyes green, Bobbie?” He returned her 
smile unwillingly. 

“They’re the biggest brown eyes in Christendom, 
you little devil, and you know it. And what’s more, 
they see everything, God help me!” 

“Be good, and you’ll be happy,” Frankie returned 
piously, but her hand still snuggled in his. Helga 
sighed with relief. Suddenly she turned and spoke 
abruptly. 

“Here comes Miles—some one with him. I’ll run 
and meet them. See you later when I come to get my 
suitcase.” Before Frankie could protest, she was 
across the lawn and through the hedge that divided 
the estates. Her heart was pounding furiously against 
her chest. She couldn’t be mistaken. It was Flor¬ 
ence, Florence —with Miles! She recognized her sis- 


172 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


ter’s tossing head, and her almost trotting walk in the 
scant skirt. Helga leaned against the tree near by and 
pressed a hand to her heart as she saw them approach. 
Anybody but Florence! Then as they caught sight of 
her, she stepped forward gallantly and approached 
them. She would have to wait and let Florence give 
her the cue—as to whether Miles was now aware of 
their relationship. Perhaps Florence had reason to 
reproach her, too. In the remorse that this thought 
caused, she flung out her arms, about to embrace her 
sister, though there was pain and frustration in her 
eyes. But the older girl only gripped one of Helga’s 
hands coolly. 

“Well, for goodness’ sake, Helga, you haven’t 
changed a bit—or should I call her Mrs. Gellert now?” 
she appealed coquettishly to Miles. “You see I haven’t 
seen her since we were schoolgirls.” Helga gasped a 
little. It was the first outright lie the situation had 
caused, and Helga was never easy in the face of lies. 
She felt her emotions waver between gratitude to 
Florence and irritation with her. More lies were neces¬ 
sary now. She held her sister’s hand in a quiet 
pressure. 

“I’m delighted to see you again, Florence,” she said 
with a composure that surprised herself, “but you’ll 
forgive me if I’ve forgotten your last name-” 

“Miss Pearson,” supplied Miles quickly. “You 
shouldn’t have forgotten, Helga—it’s so similar to your 
own maiden name.” 

Helga shot a quick glance at him for the first time. 
He stood there easily, quietly, but the faint amuse¬ 
ment in his eyes irked her. She felt a rush of warmth 
toward Florence, a desire to defend her sister from 
Miles’ mocking look, even though she alone was aware 
of the mockery. 



NETTLES 


173 


“We’re going to sit here on the bench and talk over 
old days, Miles,” she laughed lightly, “and I’m afraid 
you’d be bored.” She drew her sister down beside her 
on the stone settee, and eyed him almost defiantly. 
Florence giggled shrilly. 

“Don’t go, Mr. Gellert,” she bridled. “It’s just an 
old trick of Helga’s—shooing the men away.” But 
Miles shook his head, declining to ignore Helga’s broad 
hint. 

“It’s entirely unjust, Miss Pearson,” he admitted 
lightly, “but perhaps we may be allowed to finish our 
conversation later.” 

He bowed slightly and walked on through the hedge 
to the Mallows’ house. Both girls watched him until 
the last blur of white flannels vanished, then Florence 
turned excited, sparkling eyes toward Helga. 

“I think he’s just grand, Venus—and the garden and 
everything just like a moving picture! Of course the 
house is kind of old-fashioned, but then he’s sort of 
old anyway. How did you ever happen to marry 
him?” 

“He’s not my husband,” her sister answered coolly. 
With Miles’ departure, her defensive and protective 
attitude toward Florence was waning. “He’s my 
uncle-in-law and- 

“Married?” the older girl demanded breathlessly. 

“No.” Florence drew a deep breath and clasped 
her hands together. 

“Oh, Venus, please let me stay with you a few days. 
It would be such fun—after all, we are sisters, though 
I told that whopper pretty good. You know I really 
think he is kind of—well, it sounds conceited—but 
kind of interested in me. He just looked me up and 
down when I come in, and I don’t look so tough today 
myself.” 


174 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


She thrust a pair of very shapely legs straight before 
her and eyed the apricot-colored hose that encased them 
complacently. And Venus looked at her in silence. 
The tiny, slightly pinched little face, heavily rouged 
where tight, black curls swept over the cheeks, the 
smart, very conspicuous tweed suit and tilted hat were 
not unattractive, and Helga knew it. Not unattractive 
to Florence’s acquaintances, to the snappy youngsters 
that frequented the Island of New York’s amusement, 
to the barkers and managers of these resorts—but to 
Miles? Would he overlook the grimy little finger nails, 
the abundance of cheap perfume, and the lashes beaded 
so heavily that they drew black lines under the eyes 
whenever the girl smiled? Would he overlook the fact 
that a wad of gum was concealed in one cheek, though 
Florence carefully manipulated it to immobility when¬ 
ever she spoke? Good Lord, that was Florence’s idea 
of a lady! Some one who didn’t actually chew and 
talk at the same time. And her grammar! If her 
sister were only real, clear through, if her character 
were not as shallow as the powder that concealed the 
grime of traveling—one need not be ashamed. Yet 
Florence had had the chance at the same advantages 
that Helga had insisted upon—and had laughed them 
to scorn. 

“Don’t even think of such a thing,” she said almost 
sharply in reply. “The Gellerts have no idea who I 
am. Surely the family have told you why I did this— 
this thing. To get away from my name and reputation 
as—as a freak. Don’t you see, Flo, that if they once 
know my family, I might just as well have stayed at 
home?” 

Florence pouted. 

“But you’re married now,” she said obstinately, “so 
what can they do about it? Don’t you love your hus- 


NETTLES 


175 


band? Ain’t he keen on you anyway?” Helga threw 
out helpless hands. 

“That’s my business, Florence,” she said dryly, “and 
there’s too much behind it for me to discuss with you. 
All you need to understand is that if they knew who 
we were, it would cause them a good deal of humilia¬ 
tion. They are a family that shrink from such pub¬ 
licity and-” 

“Huh!” Her sister was vindictive. “Shrink from 
publicity, do they? And you, too? Now let me tell 
one! I noticed you all were front-lining the papers a 
few days ago! And you at your old stunts, too. You 
can’t fool me. I read all the reports and I know damn 
well that it was you who did the swinging stuff and 
not him. How about it?” 

“True enough,” Helga sounded composed, “though 
you needn’t correct any impressions, please, Florence.” 

Her sister flushed an unbecoming red that warred 
with her rouge. She dug her heel vindictively into 
the ground. 

“So that’s the kind you are,” she muttered, “wouldn’t 
help me out, oh, no—that would be publicity for the 
precious Gellert family. But you don’t object to doing 
something a lot more dangerous and just as spectacu¬ 
lar for them ” 

“You know that was different—it was a case of life 
and death for—my husband. In your case—well, it’s 
just a question of your deliberately getting yourself 
into a certain position and then hollering for me to do 
what you haven’t nerve to put over yourself. You’ve 
done that once before, Florence—and I’m through. Ed 
and the family begged you not to sign the contract, and 
you went ahead and did it. Then you come here to 
Boston and want me to throw away everything I’ve 
been working for, undo the whole business—just for 



176 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


you. And you’re taking it for granted it’s your right 
to ask it. It isn’t. I’m not even Venus Petersen any 
more. I’m Mrs. Drake Gellert.” 

Florence hung her head, and then suddenly flung it 
up again. 

“You’re awful hard, Venus. You always were, you 
and Ed. Expectin’ everybody to be able to do just 
what you do. But it’s more for the family I’m asking 
now. Honest, Pa is all shot over it, so is Ma. There’s 
one thing Ed and me realized, that you never have, 
and that’s the way Pa and Ma feel about—the family. 
Why, they’re as proud as your old Gellerts. And some¬ 
thing’s come over Pa lately. He’s all gone to pieces 
since he give up his job. Ma’s at her wit’s end to 
know what to do with him. If you could help me 
out—us out, just this once, Venus, I’ll swear to you 
we’ll never bother you again about anything. Venus, 
Ed told me to come. He’s sure you’ll come. He says 
you got to.” 

Helga buried her face in her arms. The garden was 
very still for a moment, but in its stillness she could 
hear the pounding of her own heart. And as she half 
raised her head again, she saw her sister’s smudged 
little paw, bereft of its glove, wipe away a fallen tear 
from her skirt. She had never seen Florence cry but 
once before. That was over a man. Helga sat up and 
gazed straight ahead of her. And she saw Drake 
coming down the path from the house. 

“Buck up, Flo,” she said warningly. “My husband 
is coming down the path, there. What did you say 
you called yourself? Pearson?” And in that quick, 
flurried question, her sister read defeat for herself. 
With hands that were steady now, she drew a vanity 
case from her hand bag and composedly applied pow¬ 
der and rouge under the very eyes of Drake who was 


NETTLES 


177 


now almost before them. Helga rose from the bench 
slowly. 

“Miss Pearson—my husband, Mr. Gellert,” she said 
in a low voice, and then, “You should have come 
sooner, Drake, Miss Pearson is just in Boston for the 
day and ran out to talk over old times with me. Her 
train goes in a few minutes. ,, 

“Sorry,” Drake murmured perfunctorily, after he 
had acknowledged the introduction. “May I take you 
down, Miss Pearson?” 

“I’m taking her myself in the roadster,” Helga inter¬ 
rupted quickly. “Thank you just the same, Drake.” 
Florence had recovered her composure and was now 
studying her sister’s husband with admiration mixed 
with some resentment. She flung him an arch smile. 

“I cer’nly hate to leave so soon, Mr. Gellert,” she 
laughed. “Helga here has just been askin’ me to stay 
for a few days. But I simply can’t manage it.” She 
saw Helga’s quick frown and went on smoothly, “My 
aunt’s in town and she did want Helga and I to come 
in together and spend the day lookin’ around. But 
Helga here says her evenin’s dated up. Maybe later 
we can manage it,” she added with a malicious grin at 
her sister. Helga took her arm authoritatively. 

“We’ll have to run along now,” she murmured. 
“Drake, will you wait around here? I want your 
advice. I’ll be right back.” Drake bowed and the two 
girls hurried on. 

In the roadster, on the way to the station, there was 
silence. Florence sat huddled far from her sister, with 
an ugly, resentful look on her small features. Helga, 
after one glance at her, kept her eyes on the road, but 
her lips were compressed. She never felt as kindly 
toward Florence when with her as she did in the girl’s 
absence. And was Florence going to prove a perma- 


178 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


nent problem in the future? She had almost given in, 
there in the garden, given in to the silent pleading of 
her sister’s tears. She was glad now, that she hadn’t. 
Florence’s attitude now strengthened the definite re¬ 
solve she had reached when she saw Drake. 

The train was thundering into the station just as 
they drew up to the curb. She leaned over and kissed 
her sister’s cheek hurriedly. 

“Just made it, Flo. Good-by. And tell the family 
it’s no use—keeping at me. Forget it—or develop a 
stiff upper lip and go through the thing yourself.” 

But Florence had jumped from the car, run across 
the platform and up the train steps without even a 
backward glance. Helga was almost glad. It made it 
easier for her to maintain her attitude of refusal— 
easier than when she had turned her back on the two 
bewildered old parents in the South Station. That was 
over. The emissaries had come and gone—Ed would 
never try it—and she could forget the whole matter. 
She would try to, anyway. It would be a relief when 
the date set for the stunt had passed and there was no 
more reason for her to be coaxed or bullied. Florence, 
of course—one never knew about Florence. She had 
turned distinctly ugly those last few minutes. Oh, 
well- 

She turned the car smartly around and was speed¬ 
ing once more up the hill, this time her mind filled with 
the question she was going to put to Drake. It was 
more than the literal question that was involved, she 
knew that. It was a question that should throw some 
light on Drake’s present attitude toward the past. 
And on that attitude depended many other things—the 
permanency of her own position, the likelihood of 
Drake’s hostility towards Miles eventually subsiding, 
for somewhere in that past lay the seeds of that hos- 



NETTLES 


179 


tility. To root up one plant might mean the exposing 
of others, all to the sunlight of her optimism. 

She studied Drake as she walked down the path 
toward him a few minutes later. The sun had reached 
that point in its afternoon swing when it seemed to 
hang endlessly over the garden, when it seemed to lay 
broad stripes of light and shadow on the grass with a 
permanent brush. And the garden was still, hushed in 
its knowledge that this golden dream was only an 
illusion, flowers thrusting up their brilliant heads in a 
desperate attempt to savor the last moments of their 
only day. Drake, in his white flannels, struck the only 
note of active vitality. 

Helga felt again, as she always did when seeing him 
after a short absence, the absurdity of the schemes and 
complications that always seemed to cluster about 
him. She felt again, too, that same irritation with 
him, as though by one thrust of his powerful hand, as 
though by one boyish laugh, one quick ejaculation, he 
could clear away all her doubts—hers and Miles’. He 
was a man made to be depended upon, to be counselled 
with, and it was infuriating to think how lightly he had 
thrown away this power, how listless he was to re¬ 
cover it. 

“Drake,” she commenced immediately, taking ad¬ 
vantage of her own mood, “I have an apology to make 
to you.” 

“An apology?” 

“Yes. Miles asked me if I wanted my room done 
over with a—a new color scheme—it had to be re¬ 
papered, you know. I went ahead and had the 
paperers do it according to my own inclinations, and 
I have just realized that I should have consulted you.” 

“Why? It is Miles’ house, not mine.” Helga 
flushed. 


180 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“It was—your wife’s room, Drake. It might have 
hurt you to have it changed.” 

“It is yours now,” he said lightly. “Don’t think 
another thing about it.” 

“Then you didn’t mind?” 

“A memory is pretty poor that depends on material 
associations,” he said, slowly. “No, I didn’t mind.” 
Helga was baffled. She might, or might not, draw com¬ 
fort from these words. And reflecting on this thought, 
she realized, with a sort of horror at herself, that she 
resented Drake’s memories of his first wife. Yet why 
not, if those memories kept him disturbed, tied him to 
an unfortunate experience? And in the pause, Drake 
snipped a marigold from the border and tested it 
tentatively against a lock of her hair. 

“That’s your color, isn’t it?” he remarked uninter¬ 
estedly. 

“A scentless flower?” Then Helga hated herself 
for the obvious bid for flattery. He dropped the mari¬ 
gold and shrugged his shoulders. 

“I didn’t mean it that way,” dryly, and then with 
an abrupt change of manner, “Who is Miss Pearson, 
Helga?” The girl was startled. She expected ques¬ 
tions from Miles, but not from Drake. 

“Why so interested?” she sparred rather inanely, 
seeking for time. Drake drew himself up. 

“I have never been accused of being curious,” he 
said stiffly. In a flash Helga understood his expres¬ 
sion, an expression out of all proportion with the inci¬ 
dent. Drake had, in the past, been accused of being 
curious. 

“She’s just an old school friend of mine,” she replied 
quickly. “I haven’t seen her for some time, and she 
looked me up when she read my name in the papers the 
other day.” 


NETTLES 


181 


“She knows all about you?” 

“Why, yes.” Drake thrust his hands into his pockets 
gloomily. 

“I’m not crabbing any—Miles told me about the 
contract. But I hate to think of your being exposed 
to people of that sort running in on you—people that 
know you as I can’t. I’m glad she wasn’t what I 
thought at first, an intimate friend. Actress or some¬ 
thing of the sort, isn’t she?” 

“Y-yes.” 

“Thought so. Cheap and flashy. You’re too fine, 
Helga, to let people like that sponge on you for invita¬ 
tions. Don’t do it. I know ’em all.” 

“Drake, you are a snob—for other people. How 
about that mechanic friend of yours from South 
Boston?” 

“He’s a regular chap — in my company across. 
That’s different. This girl, this Miss Pearson—well, 
her face and looks and voice give her away. There’s 
nothing behind any of ’em. Leda had a raft of 
acquaintances of that sort that she was too good- 
natured to step on. And they weren’t good for her. 
You should know the difference between originality 
and vulgarity, rough diamonds and bad eggs, old dear.” 

Helga’s face was crimson to tears. 

“Until I give you the right to do otherwise, Drake, I 
shall decide upon my own acquaintances. Please un¬ 
derstand that I shall not intrude them upon you in 
any way. I should be glad if I had your complete 
self-confidence in first impressions-” 

“I should have kept my mouth shut,” he interrupted 
penitently, but Helga had already brushed past him 
on her way to the house. A sick, terrified feeling in her 
breast seemed to choke her very breathing as she stum¬ 
bled into her room. Her hand flooded the apartment 


182 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


with light and for an instant the changes before her 
diverted her feminine interest. 

The walls were rough plastered and panelled in a 
curiously tinted gold. The French gray and wicker 
furniture had vanished. A mahogany that suggested 
bronze had taken its place, and instead of a day-bed, 
a huge divan covered with oddly brocaded pillows was 
pushed under the windows. The draperies at the latter 
repeated the bronze and golden note. Only a brass 
bowl of deep blue and scarlet flowers showed contrast¬ 
ing hues. The room had taken on a new charm of 
spaciousness and the heavy mahogany furnishings held 
the colors to the confines of sobriety, saving them from 
Orientalism. 

It was as though the room, like a fire, had burst 
from a delicate ash into a ruddy, rich glow—as vital 
yet as cool as a bed of marigolds in tree-shade. 

But the room was now a finished fact, and Helga, 
who had followed its decorating, felt her mind drawn 
back from this surface pleasure into a consideration 
of the discomforting scene which had just taken place. 
With a touch of dismay she realized that she had 
neglected to pass on to Drake, Frankie’s invitation for 
the evening. She felt a dull disinterest in it now her¬ 
self. Quarrels were always enervating to her. With a 
shrug, however, she pushed the call bell and when 
Ellen answered, repeated Frankie’s message to be 
transmitted to both Miles and Drake before they 
dressed for the light summer dinner. 

She had hardly started the water in the bath when 
Ellen returned. 

“Mr. Gellert will be very happy to go tonight, 
ma’am,” she said, her prim tone belying her sidelong 
interest in the girl, and the eager and round-eyed 
glance which she was casting at the room before her. 


NETTLES 


183 


Morton held undisputed sway of the “upper regions” 
and to maintain his air of mystery was often willing to 
do work which should have been delegated to the two 
maids. They were rarely allowed in the “master's” 
part of the house when any of the family were home, 
and now that Ellen had snatched this opportunity in 
Morton's absence, she was making the most of it. 

Helga pulled her negligee about her with a touch 
of impatience. 

“Yes, Ellen? And what did Mr. Drake say?” 

“He's sorry he will be unable to go, ma’am, and 
hopes you will all have an enjoyable time.” 

“Thank you, Ellen. That's all.” 

As the girl left the room, Helga turned away from 
the mirror. A new door had been cut through the 
wall, a door which led into Drake's apartments. It 
had been cut for the benefit of those who might won¬ 
der, but even Ellen knew that the key to it reposed in 
Mrs. Gellert’s right-hand dresser drawer—since the 
door had been left by the carpenters. Helga plunged 
her hand into the drawer now and drew out the brass 
object. Drake was in his room—sulking? Was she 
keeping her part of the bargain—or was it up to her to 
stay home and put him in a good temper while the 
Reynoldses and Miles were enjoying an evening that 
was an old story to them but a novelty to her? She 
weighed the key in a moment’s hesitation, and then 
with a shrug dropped it back into the drawer. 

After all, it was no longer a case of humoring a sick 
man, and it had been he, not she, who had been rude, 
even if he had offered a mild apology. The whole 
situation had changed with Drake's recovery and she 
might be putting herself in a humiliating position if she 
ventured to presume on the nominal tie that bound 
them. Overtures would better come from him. 


XIII 

Boulevards and Brass Buttons 


the Copley Plaza,” Miles indicated 
with a wave of his hand. “We’re almost 
there now.” With a word to Bob Rey- 
om=ro==oi= nolds, who was driving with Frankie be- 

- side him, the older man switched on the 

light, and flooded the tonneau of the limousine with a 
soft radiance. Helga, blinking her dusky black 
lashes against the sudden glow, bloomed from the cor¬ 
ner like a great golden flower. He eyed her gorgeous 
gown and wrap approvingly. 

“I see you are a hothouse orchid as well as a black- 
eyed Susan,” he said in a low voice. Helga’s smile was 
shy. 

“How—sweet of you,” she said with a little catch in 
her laugh. “Men don’t pay such compliments nowa¬ 
days. We’ve forgotten how to accept them.” 

Miles drew the corner of his mouth down whimsi¬ 
cally. 

“Yuh cer’nly pay for dressin’, kid,” he mimicked in 
a Bowery drawl, and added, “I imagine your childhood 
friend, Miss Pearson, would consider that more intel¬ 
ligible.” He saw the girl wince and instantly went on 
in a contrite tone, “My dear, I’m sorry. I had no 
idea she was anything but an old acquaintance whom 
you scarcely knew now. Please believe I wouldn’t 
be so rude as to deliberately criticize a—friend.” 

“You were quite right in your assumption,” Helga 
replied, in an indifferent tone, drawing her wrap about 
her, “and I’m not in the least offended. Have we 
arrived?” 


184 








BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 185 


“We have.” Miles assisted her from the car, and 
then laughed aloud. 

“Don’t look so surprised at our host’s domicile,” he 
chuckled. “I assure you he pays a ghastly rental for 
this Bohemianism. Wait until you go inside.” 

The street seemed to be a conglomerate mixture of 
offices and homes, shaken up into a dirty-brown pud¬ 
ding, and placed dankly on the sidewalk, while the 
absence of adequate street lamps either attested to the 
street’s utter incorrigibility or its complete respecta¬ 
bility, and the hollows in the ancient brick sidewalk 
might have been worn by generations of sedate home- 
comers, or nightly scuffles among brigands. 

The type of street was not new to Helga, but the 
type of people who could live on such a street—and 
didn’t have to—was a complete novelty. She was 
struck into silence as she followed Frankie down the 
dark area-steps. Miles had preceded her, and his hand 
was a guide. Frankie was lustily pounding the brass 
knocker on the basement door. Helga regarded the 
latter with more approval. Now that they were close 
she could see that it was painted a bright, rustic green 
and that the knocker was well polished. 

“Glad to see they’ve got a new knocker,” Frankie 
said in a stage whisper. “Bob told me that Mr. Forbes 
—above mentioned violinist and host—got blood-poi¬ 
soning in his hand from a rusty old antique his wife 
insisted on putting on the door. What price art?” 
And she went on with no change of tone as the door 
suddenly swung open. “So here we are.” 

A mulatto maid took their wraps as they stepped 
into the vestibule. Helga blinked again, at the im¬ 
maculate grayness of the reception hall, only broken 
by a single bowl of orchids upon the console table. 
Farther along, the hall widened into a small gallery 


186 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


braced by a low rail. They stood at the head of a short 
flight of steps leading down into a huge studio. To be 
sure, the dimness of the room, only lighted by innumer¬ 
able lamps of all sizes (all artistically coy with their 
illumination) blocked the floor into great shadows, 
increasing the illusion of space. Still, the girl quickly 
estimated that there were at least fifty people present 
—and the studio seemed half empty. The low hum of 
subdued voices, the great divans, half glimpsed behind 
palms and statuettes, the two grand pianos at either 
end of the room, all formed a scene bizarre to her. 

“Don’t look so wide-eyed,” Frankie admonished her. 
“They’ll spot you as an innocent and drag you into 
corners and things to listen to them. I’d never rescue 
you all evening. Look as bored as possible. That’s 
your only defense.” 

“I’m going to be her dragon,” Miles affirmed, only 
half lightly, and Frankie flung him a quick glance. 

“They serve heady ambrosia here generally, Bob 
says,” she replied with apparent irrelevance, and then 
advanced to greet her host and hostess. As they were 
introduced, Helga felt a slight disappointment. Damon 
Forbes was a type that, lacking culture and a certain 
veneer, she had long been familiar with. Slight, pallid, 
with hungry dark eyes and a plaintive air—she had 
seen him scores of times in circus bands, in the orches¬ 
tras of small theaters, in her own home. Devilled with 
ambition and third-rate talent, these men always were. 
Rosina Forbes, well, one couldn’t tell. Certainly she 
had the figure of a singer, an enormous torso that 
seemed to have been misfitted to her small-featured, 
childishly eager face. She greeted Helga kindly, with 
a jerky, breathless manner that the girl soon decided 
was characteristic. 

“My dear Mrs. Gellert—so good of you. Do just 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 187 


mingle won’t you? Please don’t worry about intro¬ 
ductions—and I think you will prefer the beverages 
on the second table over there. They’re for the ladies. 
Ha-ha! Damon says he has seen several women 
bound in the wrong direction.” Before Helga could 
reply, the next batch of newcomers had claimed Mrs. 
Forbes’ attention and Miles was drawing her firmly 
along with him. 

“Let’s find a secluded spot somewhere, Frankie,” he 
suggested. “I see signs that talent is about to boil, and 
I don’t want to get scalded.” After some aimless 
wandering, in which they startled several couples, and 
completely ruined the composure of a poet who was 
frantically remodelling a last line, they found an empty 
divan which afforded a good view of the whole studio, 
yet which was not too exposed to others’ gaze. More¬ 
over Bob signalled Miles to note with joy the fact that 
one of the tables holding the cocktail shakers was 
within arm’s length. The two men immediately poured 
out drinks for themselves and Frankie, but Helga 
shook her head abstractedly as she tried to see every¬ 
thing that was going on. So it was she that first noted 
the sudden cessation of conversation. She pinched 
Frankie’s knee, and the men subsided into silence, 
after taking a second drink with the air of men who 
shoulder weapons for defense. 

“Mrs. Forbes is going to sing to start them off,” 
Frankie murmured unnecessarily, and added a few 
minutes later, “Well, that wasn’t so bad, but wait for 
some of the readers.” 

A tremendously stout woman arose and recited a 
nursery poem of Tagore’s to the accompaniment of 
the piano, played by herself with feeling, it is to be 
supposed she thought. But she was one of those un¬ 
fortunates whose eyes need to know what their hands 


188 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


are doing, and no one but herself was unaware that she 
ended naively, and with poignant emotion on the 
wrong note. She rose ponderously and sought her seat 
with eyes that seemed to proclaim that she was still 
borne on the wings of the muse. 

Other renditions, vocal and musical, followed. 
“Didn’t I tell you?” Frankie chortled. “They’ll get 
worse and worse as the ‘beverages’ fade away. That 
fat woman who recited Tagore has had two drinks 
since, and is rarin’ to go.” 

“Sh! No, she isn’t.” 

A young girl, barely eighteen, obviously sober, and 
shaking piteously with stage fright, came forward into 
the center of the room. She opened her mouth twice 
before the words came dryly out. Helga clenched her 
hand in sympathy. She knew that feeling, and that 
the size of the audience or its state of criticism made 
no difference. 

“Go to it, kid,” Frankie murmured sympatheti¬ 
cally. “You can’t be any rottener than the others, and 
they’re not half listening anyway.” 

“The New Moon and the Old is the title of my—my 
new poem,” the girl gulped, and then proceeded in a 
faint voice: 

Once you were the young, new moon, 

Piercing with silver horn, 

The shy, gray cloud that marred your face, 

And shining through the black trees’ lace 
You turned my garden into morn, 

To a dim, new beauty it had not worn— 

When you were the young, new moon. 

You touched with shimmering, shifting white, 

The marble path on which we strolled. 

Nor could the growing cypress tree, 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 


189 


With its budding leaves, shield Her from Thee, 

Nor keep the secret that She told, 

But listened to it—brazen—bold, 

When you were the young, new moon. 

And the cypress gathering from Her lips 
That secret, treacherously, 

Its thousand branches shivering, 

A low breeze sent it quivering— 

That secret—straight to Thee; 

And you—you shone with greater ecstasy, 

For you were the young, new moon. 

Now you are the old and dying moon, 

Tracing with fingers kind 
The wavering outline of each stone 
Of that broken, marble path, moss-grown. 

And there stands the cypress, stark-outlined, 

Its naked boughs moonlight-entwined 
By you, the old and dying moon. 

But one spot lies still in the shadow 
At the foot of the cypress tree. 

From that cross-marked mound, does the cypress hear 
Another secret, more sweet, more dear, 

That it whispers to you—and you to me, 

That makes you shine so tenderly, 

That makes you gleam so goldenly 
As your light dies out? . . . 

“She hasn’t a chance,” murmured Miles as a faint 
applause followed the girl to her seat, “the thing 
rhymed.” 

“It was sad—very sad,” Bob broke in. Helga turned 
sharply at the broken tones of his voice and saw 
Frankie remove a glass from his hand. 

“When you begin to cry over poetry, Bob Reynolds, 
leave this stuff alone. What’s next, Helga? Oh, my 


190 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


Lord, some more poets. Look at him! He looks more 
like a prize fighter.” 

Helga had hard work to suppress her outright laugh¬ 
ter as the man strode to the front of the room. Cor¬ 
duroy trousers and a blue shirt, close-clipped hair and 
a belligerent jaw proclaimed that he was, indeed, a 
man among men. But her eyes sparkled with interest 
as he boomed an introductory word. Here was going 
to be something rousing, vital—something like Noyes’ 
Highwayman. Then he began to recite, and as he did 
so, something seemed to evaporate from his voice, his 
tones dragged and faded. “J un gl es -” he hissed sud¬ 
denly. 

Jungles where wild scarlet flowers fling 
A pois’nous taunt from under pulpy leaves. 

A ring 

Of aching, sullen copper is the sun. 

Where slimy rivers run, 

The gnarled cactus gapes. 

Here Nature frees 
Her dreams, and 
Peoples all the solitudes 
With hideous, human shapes— 

These 

Are the nightmares that she dreams 
Through hot and velvet nights . . . 

Here huge and sinuous branches bend and twist 
O’erloaded with their heavy purple fruit. 

A mist 

Of sickly, warm white vapor is the air. 

And ever present there 
A deadly perfume spreads. 

No human heart 
Could live amidst 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 191 


This gorgeous deathliness 

Of purple, green, and golden flower beds. 

Part 

Devil must I be, that I 

Can gather stifling blooms close to my breast 

And find within their drugged sweetness—rest! 

As the author of this effusion walked to his seat 
through tremendous applause, Bob shook his head 
sympathetically and poured Miles another drink. 

“That chap must smoke Camels.” 

But Frankie was in convulsions. 

“My dears—I’m going to do it, I really am—after 
that.” 

“Do what, dear?” Her husband was sobered into 
anxiety. 

“I’m going to recite a poem—an original poem.” 

“A poem!” Helga echoed bewilderingly. “I thought 
you were to be prepared to sketch somebody.” 

“I was, but Mrs. Forbes got me all twisted up with 
some one else. When I came in, she told me she under¬ 
stood I was going to give them an interpretation of my 
latest poem, called—” Frankie choked, “called Gar¬ 
bage! And I’m going to.” 

“You can’t,” Helga admonished, half sternly, though 
her lips twitched. “It wouldn’t—be nice to your hosts, 
Frankie.” But Frankie had already seized a pencil 
and paper from Bob and had arisen. 

“I’m going to hide myself behind those palms and 
let genius bubble a few minutes. No more drinks, 
Bob, remember.” And she was running across the 
room. 

Miles met Helga’s eyes and his own twinkled. 

“Don’t try to reform Frankie, Helga. And don’t 
worry. She’ll get away with it without insulting any¬ 
body.” But the next part of the program, largely 


192 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


musical, made little impression on the girl as she anx¬ 
iously waited for Frankie’s reappearance. 

A half hour later, Mrs. Forbes came tiptoeing down 
the room while her husband was playing. She peered 
nearsightedly at Helga and then spoke with evident 
relief to Bob. 

“Oh, Mr. Reynolds, we’re expecting to hear your 
wife interpret for us, right after this number. Is she 
with you?” 

“I’ll get her for you, Mrs. Forbes.” And Bob 
crossed the room in search of Frankie with a suspi¬ 
ciously dignified walk. 

Helga was left alone with Miles. 

“She’s going to recite,” she said in an anguished 
tone. “Oh, Miles—!” For Bob was returning to 
them, the clapping was dying as Mr. Forbes left the 
floor, and Frankie was tripping with diminutive, de¬ 
termined steps to the center of the room. She stood 
there a moment gripping the piece of paper in her 
hands, her head flung back, her eyes closed. It was*a 
tremendously histrionic pose, as adopted by so minia¬ 
ture a person, and the conversation that had arisen 
hushed instantly. She stood intense, concentrated be¬ 
fore them—a new prophetess. 

“Garbage” she announced, in a clear, reverent 
voice. 

The room settled into attention. 

You who seek life and beauty in a bed of flowers 

Who look for gods to worship in their futile bloom, 

Gaze in your garbage can. 

It contains 

All lust, all beauty and all usefulness. 

See twist there 

Elliptical orange rinds of revelry, 

Prostituted to a glass of gin . . . 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 193 


Potato peelings, geometric too, 

Honestly recalling 
Tiresome domestic hours. 

The coffee grounds suggest 
Your nights of study— 

Mingled with sly leaves of tea, 

O’er which you gossiped, slandered lustily. 

She halted a little, disconcerted by the touch of 
rhyme. 

What beauty is not there? 

Could colors that a cubist palette holds 
Slant into blobs and triangles more futilely 
Than all these mangled and insensate hues? 

What fragrance is not pressed and there condensed? 
Odors of kitchen gardens, 

Far-off lands of spice! 

What noisome secret, happy laughter or what gluttonous 

sigh 

That scatters through your ravelled, rotten lives, 

Is not condensed, one smell—one look— 

Into your garbage can! 

The studio vibrated to immense applause, but as 
Frankie came toward them unsmilingly, Bob pressed 
an uncertain hand to his stomach. 

“I say, Frankie, that made me feel a bit squeamish 
inside.” 

“Serves you right,” his wife was curt. “Time for 
us to go anyhow. I suppose that was a punk trick of 
mine and I’ve spoiled somebody’s turn. Let’s get out. 
Thank goodness, it’s considered bad form to say good- 
by to your hostess at these affairs. I wouldn’t dare 
face her.” 

“You put it over, I think,” Miles laughed as they 
walked down the room. 

“Only on the ones that are tight—and most of them 


194 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


will suspect something wrong as soon as they recover,” 
Frankie replied gloomily and they slipped out to the 
door in silence. Helga had learned that when Frankie’s 
gayety evaporated, others must subside. 

But as soon as the car started away from the curb, 
Miles leaned toward her. 

“It’s early—only ten-thirty,” he murmured. “I was 
set for a longer evening. Frankie’s provoked because 
Bob had too much to drink. They’re through for the 
night. But are you game to go with me some place to 
supper and to dance?” 

Helga hesitated. She was tempted. It was not 
often she would have these opportunities and the eve¬ 
ning had been short, considering the time and care 
which she had expended upon her appearance, a con¬ 
sideration, which, among women, is an important fac¬ 
tor in cutting short or lengthening a party. Frankie 
was wearing a simple blue crepe de Chine which was 
familiar to all of them. Helga knew it would be of no 
use to urge her to join them. 

“Would it be all right?” she questioned earnestly. 
“I mean, would it annoy Drake?” 

“Why should it?” he queried sharply, “under the 
circumstances?” 

“He seems strict about some things,” Helga mur¬ 
mured vaguely. 

“Nonsense. If you’re tired and don’t want to, my 
dear, that is one thing. I wouldn’t ask you to do any¬ 
thing that would irritate Drake.” Helga felt the re¬ 
buke. 

“Of course you wouldn’t. And I’d love to go some¬ 
where. All right.” And though Miles was nearly silent 
the rest of the drive, Helga sat erect, wide-eyed, gazing 
into the lighted but deserted streets through which 
they raced. 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 195 


Frankie swung into her own driveway and drew the 
car smartly up to the curb. 

“Bob’s almost gone to sleep,” she addressed Miles. 
“Do you mind putting the car up for me? Thanks, 
loads. And thanks to you, too, Helga for going along 
with us. I’m sorry it wasn’t so amusin’ as I’d hoped.” 

But before Helga could protest her appreciation, 
Frankie and Bob had passed into the house, Bob with¬ 
out even a word of good-night. 

“Bob’s pretty tight,” Miles remarked carelessly, as 
he took the driver’s wheel, and saw that the girl was 
comfortably placed beside him. “He didn’t have but 
one more than I did, but he can’t hold it at all. It 
infuriated Frankie and he’s always penitent until the 
next time. Doesn’t much care how often he drinks, 
never takes it unless it’s offered, but hasn’t gauged his 
capacity yet.” 

“I—rather dislike drinking,” the girl answered. 
“Makes people so—different.” 

“Different—or more so?” he laughed down at her. 

“Well—either.” 

“True enough, if one isn’t moderate. Now we’re 
bound for Magnolia Gardens. Does that suit you?” 

“Anywhere.” Helga buried her round chin in the 
scarf at her throat. The glow of excitement that 
possessed her at Miles’ new, warm attitude was only 
given an edge by her faint suspicion that Drake would 
be a little annoyed. She was still angry with him. 

Miles leaned toward her and she noted the sugges¬ 
tion of alcohol on his breath, but it was not offensive as 
she looked up into his keen eyes that seemed almost 
young in the darkened car. 

“This is the first time I’ve had you to myself, 
Helga.” 

“Yes.” She was a little bewildered. 


196 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“You know/’ he said expansively, “I suppose I have 
an almost proprietary interest in you. Sometimes I’m 
daring enough to think I discovered you—certainly 
Drake can’t claim that distinction, however he may 
profit by it. Tell me, Helga, have you ever been dis¬ 
covered before?” He bent down so that one rosy tri¬ 
angle of her cheek was directly under his eyes. A hand 
seemed to clutch at Helga’s heart. She knew a strange, 
almost unhappy moment of excitement and some in¬ 
stinct in her asked the age-old question that unso¬ 
phisticated femininity always asks in the presence of 
such emotion, “Am I falling in love with this man?” 
Her conscious mind had repudiated the question almost 
before it was asked, but it had already widened her 
eyes into jetty pools. 

“I—know what you mean, I think, but it’s not a 
question I can very well answer, can I?” Miles 
straightened up and tightened his hands upon the 
wheel. 

“You are very fascinating tonight,” he said abruptly, 
“and I have had a drink or two to loosen my tongue, 
I suppose. At any rate, I feel that I want to be talka¬ 
tive—about you.” 

“It’s an extremely interesting subject, I admit,” the 
girl smiled demurely. Through her mind was running 
an absurd quotation from “Jane Eyre”: “Young lady, 
I am disposed to be gregarious and communicative this 
evening.” She laughed aloud, as she repeated it to 
Miles. 

“So I’m Rochester and you’re Jane,” he muttered 
unsmilingly. Helga winced a little. The remark had 
a broadness of implication that was unlike Miles as she 
knew him. 

“Inasmuch as I’m a paid dependent, yes,” she thrust 
back at him. He frowned. 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 197 


. “I am sorry to hear you say that, my dear. I could 
wish that your marriage held certain other elements 
that I hoped might develop—that you and Drake 
might find yourself close friends, at least.” 

“We would be—if we weren’t married.” 

“Ah—well, that is a shrewd observation. You mean, 
I suppose, that you are both so much of a type that 
you could never be anything but friends, and that the 
self-consciousness naturally developed by your nomi¬ 
nal relationship prevents that friendship from becom¬ 
ing established?” 

“Well, not exactly that—and yet—yet, perhaps that 
is it,” Helga stammered unhappily, aware of the rea¬ 
sonable logic of his deductions and yet unsatisfied by 

them. Miles relaxed in his seat, as though he had re¬ 
ceived some answer to an obscure question other than 
his spoken one. The car slowed down, slanted across 
the road and quietly halted underneath the branches 
of a huge shade tree. 

They were on a boulevard. Far behind them twin¬ 
kled one street light, far ahead of them another. But 
close in and around them was a silent mass of forest. 
It might have been Robin Hood’s Sherwood that 
hemmed them in secretly and in darkness. The world 
was bound to them only by the dull strip of macadam 
that gleamed under the head lamps for a few yards. 
Even that became fogged as Miles’ hand touched the 
dimmers. With the cessation of the engine’s hum, and 
the rush of wind past the car, their little world was sud¬ 
denly blanketed in a waiting silence. Helga held her 
breath for an instant, as Miles’ hand closed over hers. 

“I’ve been blaming myself ever since you were mar¬ 
ried, my—Helga, for having rushed a girl like you into 
a situation so preposterous. I didn’t fully realize 

then, even when the Doctor argued with me, what I 


198 THE SWINGING GODDESS 

had done—to you. I was thinking only of Drake— 
then.” 

“Don’t you think of him now?” Helga found herself 
unable to reply very coherently with her hand held in 
that close pressure. 

“Yes, though I admit that now he is well I am 
being able to be less selfish about him. He can fend 
for himself now, and all he asks is that I leave him 
alone. The fool—the fool! Throwing away his 
opportunity!” 

“His opportunity?” 

“You!” 

Miles’ arm had slid around her shoulders and now 
for an instant his face was perilously near her lips. 
Something sprang up within the girl that startled her— 
not fear, not outraged virtue, but a definite sense that 
this was not what she wanted. Yet she had known, 
the last few minutes, had known intuitively when he 
stopped the car, that it was leading to—this. She had 
known, and been eager to know, had thrilled at the 
tones of his voice, at the vigor of his hand clasp, at 
his caressing admiration. And now to discover that 
she wanted—only those, at least tonight. 

For a time that might have been an eternity to him, 
that might have been a breathless second to her, her 
cheek felt his uneven breath. Then she slowly lifted 
one hand and placed it firmly against his chest. 

“Be careful, Miles,” she said distinctly. 

With a muttered ejaculation, his arms closed about 
her. 

“By heaven, Helga, no,” he said, trying to find her 
lips. “I’ve played this other game long enough-” 

His ejaculation was bitten short and the girl sud¬ 
denly found herself released. She swayed, glanced up, 
and then with a hand pressed against her lips to 



BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 199 


smother a cry, crouched in her seat. Miles sat there 
behind the wheel again, his white shirt-front creased 
a little, one lock of gray hair straying over his fore¬ 
head. One hand gripped the wheel so that the knuckles 
showed white. The other hand and arm were secure 
in the grasp of a blue-uniformed man. Helga could 
see the glint of light on the brass of buttons, but only 
his jaw and mouth were within the radius of the faint 
light. The eyes remained veiled by the mysterious 
shadows outside the car. 

“Petting party goin’ on, huh? Well, the next time, 
you better not go on territory that the State patrols. 
Gray wolf and chicken, eh, what?” Then his flippant 
tone subsided and he became curt as he noted the dress 
and apparent station of the couple before him. The 
face that he now thrust into the car wore an ugly, con¬ 
temptuous expression. He swung open the door of 
the driver’s seat. 

“Step out of there, you! I guess we’ll talk a little 
bit more—take a few names. My cycle’s across the 
road.” 

He turned and without a backward glance strode 
down the road. Miles stepped out and looked in at 
Helga with a glance that touched even her terror by its 
poignant agony, seemingly all out of proportion to the 
incident. 

“He’s got the number—that was just a trap to make 
me try to get away,” he whispered. “I’ll stay and 
talk to him. But to know who we both are would go to 
his head. They’d eat up the chance to make an ex¬ 
ample of—us. Run, Helga! He’ll think you were 
just frightened and I can settle him if I don’t go.” 

“Run where?” The girl’s tone was bewildered. 

“Cut through the thicket there and you’ll strike a 
path that will bring you inside our grounds in less than 


200 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


five minutes. There’s a searchlight in the door of the 
car and you can’t miss it.” 

“I’d better stay—it will just make him more ugly.” 

“No, for God’s sake do as I tell you. As you begged 
me to do for you once. This is my business. I know” 

Miles had vanished. 

“What do you know?” Helga murmured contemptu¬ 
ously to herself as she ran from the car and lost herself 
in the tangle of underbrush. The ugly thought swept 
through her mind that this sort of situation was not 
utterly new to Miles. For a few moments her atten¬ 
tion was completely held by the necessity of finding 
the path without allowing the glimmer of her search¬ 
light to be seen from the road. Presently, after tear¬ 
ing her wrap on the brambles and feeling the rip of 
thorns on her new hose, she stepped out of the under¬ 
growth and found herself on a fairly well worn path 
that had evidently been running parallel with the road, 
but which at this point struck out at right angles 
through the wood. She had a massy screen now be¬ 
tween her and the boulevard, but she allowed the light 
to pick out only a few yards of the path as she hurried 
along. The lateness of the hour, the hushed rustling 
of the trees on either side of her, kept her feet to a 
brisk walk that was almost a run. Bizarre as her life 
had been, it had never held such an unprotected mo¬ 
ment as this. Leaf patterns cut themselves out with 
eerie distinctness under her torch as they could never 
do beneath the sun, and then vanished behind her. 
Boulders, and even the pebbles in the path seemed to 
take on an individuality which was denied them in the 
day. All vegetation seemed suddenly sentient. The 
girl shivered. 

Gradually before her the trees thinned. The blessed 
moment came when she glimpsed the arc light that 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 201 


heralded her own avenue. And with that glimpse, the 
walk became merely a stroll, the forest became a com¬ 
monplace grove—and the whole adventure sank into 
the sordidness of a vulgar incident—and then regained 
alarming proportions when viewed in this new light. 
She thought of the Gellert name, Drake, the nasti¬ 
nesses of public talk, for of course that was all it would 
amount to. Enough. It would wreck as completely all 
she had striven for, all Drake and Miles were proud 
of, as though it entailed a sentence or a fine. Her 
family! And she had hated their kind of notoriety! 
The sickness of almost physical nausea assailed her, 
her steps faltered as she turned into the Gellert drive¬ 
way and passed up the steps. 

“It mustn’t come out—it mustn’t come out,” she 
whispered half aloud. For the first time she savored 
the agony that had whipped across Miles’ face. She 
tried the door. It was locked. Then she remembered. 
Miles, of course, had his key, Drake was asleep—she 
hoped—and her own key was up in her room! A sud¬ 
den weakness enervated her limbs and she half rested 
against the door in a desperate effort at decision. She 
could wait here for Miles. But that was not wise. She 
could ring for Morton or arouse Drake. Either might 
defeat Miles’ effort. She sensed, of course, what his 
plan was, should the worst happen—the cheap, every¬ 
day story of a common pick-up, an unknown girl. 
Inane and vulgar, and unpleasant for him, but no story 
that would interest reporters or actually involve the 
family. No, she mustn’t ring. There was nothing to 
do but to attempt the ivy again. It was still strong 
under her own window and was springing to a new 
green. 

Down the steps she went again and silently across 
the lawn to the ground beneath her window. No moon 


202 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


was out and the great estate seemed to hold a dark and 
ghostly silence about her. Even the garden guarded 
impenetrable secrets as though with a finger to its lips, 
a finger that could not quite prevent the sigh of a light 
wind brushing the girl’s cheeks with a feather-like 
moistness. She tied her wrap firmly about her neck 
and flung its folds over her shoulder. Was she losing 
her nerve or her strength, or was it only the ghastly 
memory of the horror a few nights before that made 
this climb seem such an undertaking? 

Once she had actually essayed the ivy rope, her 
vigor returned. As always, a practical, immediate 
problem cleared her mind. Yet she sighed with relief 
as she felt her hands on the window sill. A moment 
later and she had drawn herself over it. Then an 
uneasiness assailed her. Surely the divan was not in 
quite the position that she had left it, nor had the win¬ 
dow been open! She held a huddled silence for a 
moment as her eyes tried to pierce the jetty blackness 
of the room. Was there some one, something in it 
beside herself? 

Suddenly and with a blinding flash the room was in 
the radiance of light. There, his back against the con¬ 
necting door between their rooms, stood Drake in his 
dressing gown, his hand still on one of the switches, 
the other holding a revolver which now dropped loosely 
to his side as he surveyed her with utmost aston¬ 
ishment. 

“Well,” he said at last with tones so even that they 
startled her, “I knew some one was negotiating that 
climb, but I didn’t dream it was—you. Do you always 
enter the house in so informal a fashion and—” delib¬ 
erately looking her up and down, “with such detriment 
to your clothes?” Helga’s throat was constricted and 
she looked at him miserably, without moving. 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 203 

“I didn’t have any key,” she stammered at last. 

“Didn’t Miles bring you home? Where is he?” 

“He had to—stop for some gas, and I didn’t want to 
wait.” 

“Why not?” 

“I—I felt sick.” 

Drake crossed to her and tilted her chin upwards 
with his fingers. His face was white. 

“Been drinking?” 

“No, Drake.” But he had already satisfied himself 
of that fact and he now stepped back and folded his 
arms. 

“Where was the car? You have been walking, or 
running through underbrush. There are brambles on 
your wrap. Why didn’t Miles leave the car and take 
you home? Allowing you to come home alone—at 
midnight!” 

But the girl had already recovered some composure 
—and she had already lied. So now she slowly re¬ 
moved her wrap and seated herself before the dressing 
table as she spoke. 

“My dear Drake, you shall have the whole story. 
We went in in Bob’s car to this place. Frankie wanted 
to come home early because she was bored and she 
thought Bob had had plenty to drink. We got back 
about eleven or perhaps after and she asked Miles to 
put the car up. I was all dressed up and eager to go 
some place else—the evening had been too short for 
me. So Miles was going to take me somewhere to 
get supper and dance-” 

“So?” 

“Yes.” She looked him directly in the face. “I saw 
no reason why you should mind since you evidently 
don’t care to escort me places yourself.” He made no 
comment and she went on. “We ran out of gas on 



204 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


some boulevard. Naturally, since it wasn’t his car, 
Miles didn’t care to leave it for any length of time. 
He decided to walk down the road to a garage. But he 
didn’t like leaving me there in that lonely spot. He 
considered it safer for me to cut through the woods and 
come home than to wait on a road where—almost any 
one might see the car and—me.” 

“Well,” said Drake dryly, “it seems to me that my 
worthy uncle showed comparatively little judgment— 
didn’t even remember to give you the key—and you, 
of course, were too kind to disturb the household.” He 
spoke with bitter sarcasm and the girl whirled around 
looking at him with narrowed eyes. 

“Don’t speak to me like that, if you please, Drake.” 

Drake’s lips moved to reply when there came a low, 
uncertain knock at the door. Helga’s hand went to her 
heart. Miles, of course, anxious to know if she were 
safe, anxious to tell her of the outcome of the incident! 
She looked at Drake, but he merely motioned her to 
the door. 

“Open it,” he said, his lips scarcely moving. She 
hesitated. Miles must instantly realize that she was 
not alone. In order to accomplish this, she moved rap¬ 
idly to the door and swung it wide with one motion, so 
that Drake stood facing Miles. The latter’s face went 
a dead white for a second and then he advanced into 
the room composedly, and without looking at Drake, 
turned to Helga. 

“My dear,” he said in his gravest manner, “I am 
glad to see that you got home safely.” 

“I judge you got the gas right off,” she said swiftly. 

He nodded without a moment’s hesitation. 

“Righto. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to have de¬ 
serted you like that. I found the garage man perfectly 
amenable, though the hour was a bit late.” He looked 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 205 


meaningly at her as he spoke and as she grasped the 
reassurance he was offering her, suddenly she almost 
hated him, hated him for this thread of deception that 
bound them both to a common lie. Then he turned to 
Drake and spoke in a peremptory manner. 

“Drake, I presume you come invited into Helga’s 
room?” 

Drake seated himself on the couch. 

“It’s rather up to me to question you as to your 
sending my wife home at this hour unescorted, isn’t it, 
my dear uncle?” 

“Helga has explained that.” Miles spoke with se¬ 
vere dignity. “And if Helga has asked you to come 
in here, I have nothing more to say. If she has not, 
then I demand to know by what right you are here, and 
the reason for the revolver in your hand.” 

“I am under the impression that I am her husband,” 
Drake said with quick insolence. A black frown drew 
itself between his uncle’s brows, and then he answered 
slowly. 

“Helga, by the terms of the contract, is not under 
the obligation of having her privacy disturbed.” 

“So? But I suppose the contract gives you leave to 
knock at her bedroom door at this hour?” 

“You are being ridiculous, Drake.” 

Drake rose heavily and slung the revolver upon the 
couch. Then he approached Miles and his face was 
distorted in an ugly manner. 

“Damn you and your contract,” he said evenly. 
“This is my wife’s room and no one but my wife can 
give me any orders here. Please remember that in 
the future. No more heavy avuncular stuff. At least 
I contracted to protect this girl, and hereafter I shall 
see to it that she needn’t climb in her window at mid¬ 
night—and run other risks of that nature, which appar- 


206 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


ently she is liable to in your tender care. Now get out 
and stay out!” 

The older man’s face worked, and then without a 
glance at either of them he turned and slowly left the 
room. Helga did not look up as the door closed. She 
was sitting again at her dressing table and now she 
covered her face with tired hands. A moment later 
she felt her husband leaning over her, knew that his 
hands were gripping her shoulder. She glanced up and 
met his eyes in the glass, the eyes of a stranger, 
sternly probing hers. His grip did not relax. For a 
long eternity they gazed at each other, and in both 
gray eyes and brown there was a hint of hostility, a 
hint of shame. 

“Helga,” he said finally, “forget this incident. But 
don’t forget that after all, you are my wife. I had 
forgotten it up to now. God helping me, I won’t 
again.” Then his tone changed and he passed a hand 
almost wonderingly over the soft amber crown of 
hair. “You’re really only a kid, aren’t you?” 

“I’m tired,” the girl answered him abruptly. 

“Of course you are,” he said with quick compunc¬ 
tion and glanced down. “Let me get your slippers for 
you—those metal things you’ve got on are the devil to 
walk in, aren’t they?” 

“How did you know?” the girl queried idly. She 
was too weary to wonder at him. 

“My—Leda used to wear them—and hate them. 
She had a pair almost like yours—little buckles and 
all.” Helga’s mind suddenly turned on the pair of 
metal brocade slippers she had seen in the attic. They 
had been like hers too—but there had been a baby’s 
bootee tied to them. Without pausing to reconsider 
her thought she spoke, just as Drake stooped to remove 
her slippers. 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 207 


“Drake—have you, did you ever have any chil¬ 
dren?” 

He raised wondering eyes. 

“No.” Then his look became reflective. Helga had 
a sudden vision of the coyness which he might wrongly 
attribute to her remark and she flushed hotly. 

“I just wondered,” she stammered, and hated him 
for what he might be thinking. She pushed his hand 
away a little coldly and bent to unstrap the buckle at 
her instep. He rose slowly. 

“I would have liked children,” he said quietly, “but 
Leda—wasn’t interested. She liked gayety, you know 
—and of course, she was very young.” 

“She was older than I,” Helga said a bit maliciously. 

“I—you like children?” His tone was uncertain. 

“I haven’t thought about them,” she answered 
brusquely. He was silent and when he spoke, his 
words came with difficulty. 

“I’ve read about this absurd sort of marriage, of 
course, but I never thought that any one but the fools 
in books got into them. All the questions of love, and 
money—and children, generally settle themselves in 
the last chapter by the two people concerned—falling 
in love with each other. Very convenient, isn’t it?” 
Helga couldn’t decide whether he was musing or 
amused. She shrugged her shoulders and tried to 
sound as matter-of-fact as he did. 

“Very convenient—and very unlikely.” Her tone 
gave him his dismissal, but still he lingered. 

“The Doc says that we’ve all played a mean trick 
on you—made you a convenience to settle the problem 
of—me. And now that I’m well again—it embar¬ 
rasses me.” 

Helga’s hands were still. 

“You mean that now you are well — and I am 


208 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


no longer needed — you would prefer to be — free?” 

“You know I didn’t mean that, Helga. Don’t— 
don’t be sarcastic. It’s just that the things he has 
said have made me realize your side of it.” The words 
came now in a rush. 

“He’s made me realize that you were meant for—a 
real marriage—for children. I’ve seen that, of course. 
How could I help noticing your way with the children 
in the village, up at camp?” Helga swung around on 
him. Her face had been averted. 

“My dear Drake, please don’t become heavily senti¬ 
mental over my frustrated life. I knew quite well 
what I wanted, or I shouldn’t have married you—I 
don’t mean that I wanted you -” 

“No, I’ve gathered that,” he interrupted grimly. 

“—and don’t become obsessed with the idea of me 
as a sort of baffled Madonna. Of course I like children 
and of course they like me. I’ve been with them all 
my life, and I know them pretty well. The people who 
sentimentalize over children, who regard them as a 
special race in themselves, are those who don’t really 
understand them. They’re just little grown-ups, that’s 
all—some of them are vicious little brats you hate, 
and some of them are adorable little creatures you 
love, and some of them—most of them—are just— 
children. I’d like a child, or several—of course I 
would. I presume I’m normal. But I don’t fool my¬ 
self that if I had them, I’d do nothing but pose with 
them on my breast or bend gracefully over a cradle. 
That’s your masculine idea. A woman—a real woman 
—knows that she’d love them, and smack them—that 
they gulp when they eat—and don’t blow their noses 
when they should! God help the man that thinks that 
any woman who admires a child in a perambulator is a 
born mother!” 



BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 209 


Drake threw back his head and laughed. 

“If you’re trying to make me think that you’re not 
of a maternal nature, you’re not succeeding very well.” 
But Helga was already regretting her tirade. Her tone 
was stubborn. 

“I’m not trying to make you think anything—why 
should I ? Only I confess I don’t understand this sud¬ 
den concern on your part. Why feel any sorrier for me 
than for yourself? If you like children—why aren’t 
you a born father? Or is it that you think a woman’s 
life is totally frustrated if she hasn’t a husband who 
loves her—and children?” She was ironical. Drake’s 
answer was uncompromising. 

“That’s just what I do think, Helga.” 

The girl suddenly made a bewildering capitulation. 

“You’re a hopeless Victorian, Drake—but I think 
you are right. No, wait a moment. I’m frank with 
you because otherwise you’ll think of me as going 
bravely around hiding an aching heart for my little 
‘dream-family.’ And that's not true. I’d like them— 
under the usual circumstances. But> since I’m not 
going to have them, I’m not the kind to whimper and 
dream. I don’t want to dream about children—I want 
them right here, where I could shout at them for play¬ 
ing with my manicure scissors—or sneak them into 
the movies when the nurse wasn’t looking. But there 
are lots of other things in life that I haven’t even tasted 
yet—books and interesting people and travel. You 
don’t have to feel any sorrier for me than for some 
alert, charming school-teacher of my sex—for that 
matter, any sorrier than you do for Miles—or yourself. 
There! We’ve settled that, haven’t we?” 

She rose and gave him her slow, candid smile, though 
her cheeks were still warm. 

“I’m not sure.” Drake’s eyes were speculative, un- 


210 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


smiling. “Helga, I don’t understand you,” he ex¬ 
claimed suddenly. “You have the most naive manner 
of any one I’ve ever known—and then sometimes you 
handle a situation in the way that would do credit to 
a woman of the world.” Helga’s look was innocent. 

“Have there been situations to be handled, Drake? 
You and Miles have been living such an abnormal, in¬ 
trospective life, that you sometimes believe there are 
complex situations where there are none. You both 
of you like to react in the conventional way. Why,” 
her voice was demure, “that—that night up at camp 
was your idea of the way a novelist would have treated 
‘the situation.’ It wasn’t you. And now—all this 
pathos about children—you and the Doctor and Miles 
are simply trying to play your parts acceptably! Let’s 
—let’s be ourselves , Drake. I can’t be anything else, 
I’m not clever enough—and you confuse me when you 
try to make me play up to a ‘situation’ that isn’t there.” 

“In other words, you don’t think that a man and 
woman who are married and living together in the 
same house, in adjoining rooms—and yet who do not 
love each other—you don’t think that creates any 
‘situation’?” 

“Why should it?” The girl’s voice was placidly 
surprised. 

“If you didn’t understand, or I didn’t understand, 
it might be difficult. As it is,” she went on, “every one 
is content. When you become discontented, or if you 
do, all you have to do is to tell me so. I would feel 
no more humiliation than I would if I were dismissed 
from a position for reasons that were not personal to 
me.” 

“And you will do the same with me, I suppose,” 
Drake was nettled, “if you become bored here.” 
Helga paused a moment before she replied. 


BOULEVARDS AND BRASS BUTTONS 211 


“As long as you keep your part of the contract— 
the contract which Miles made for you at your con¬ 
sent, I shall keep mine.” 

The man looked down at her, for she had seated her¬ 
self again on the low bench that stood before her dress¬ 
ing table. Her own eyes dropped before his look, and 
she drew her scarf across the creamy curve of her 
breast that gleamed under the golden light of the lamp. 

“I’ll keep a contract with you, though whether it will 
always be this one or not, I don’t know,” he said dis¬ 
tinctly. “But I can tell you right now—you may be 
contented, or you may be discontented—but you’ll 
never—go.” 

The girl was silently wondering whether to take up 
what might be a gauge of battle, or to thank him for 
what might be an assurance, but he gave her no 
opportunity. 

“I guess I’ll turn in now, Helga,” he said a little 
uncertainly. “Good-night.” 

“Good-night,” the girl answered indifferently, but 
she knew without looking up that his face held a 
question. Then the door closed upon him. But Helga 
sat motionless, for a long, long time, her eyes unsee- 
ingly upon her own reflection in the long glass. 


XIV 

Wherein Venus’s Mask is Torn 

WEEK passed. Although the two men 
met with apparent ignoring of the night 
of Frankie’s party, the civil hostility be¬ 
tween them was baldly obvious to any 
one who saw them together. And Helga 
was confused and bewildered by the atmosphere with 
which they now surrounded her. 

It was as though by committing himself to an indis¬ 
cretion that one night in the car, Miles had taken it for 
granted that his aloof, judicial attitude was now futile. 
Increasingly it was plain to the girl that he was either 
in love with her, or that he fancied he was; and that, 
moreover, his last quarrel with Drake had destroyed 
the older man’s patience and forbearing affection. He 
no longer consulted or considered Drake’s convenience 
or contentment, and indeed Helga could hardly won¬ 
der that this was so; though she did wonder that Drake 
was content to accept his uncle’s hospitality under 
these conditions. But Drake made no move or sug¬ 
gestion that indicated he intended to change the pres¬ 
ent state of affairs. Only his very reticence on this 
point might hint he was biding his time, awaiting some 
obscure event that would clarify his future plans— 
and Helga’s future plans. 

To the girl he was privately comradely, grave, inter¬ 
ested as an older brother might be. Before Miles or 
the Mallows he assumed a proprietary attitude that 
would have been amusing to Helga had she not realized 
that it was invented simply to annoy and infuriate 
212 










VENUS’S MASK IS TORN 


213 


Miles. As much as possible she was with Frankie, for 
it seemed that her every moment in her present home 
was politely but insistently intruded upon by one man 
or the other, especially if the other were also in evi¬ 
dence. Drake had acquired a rather absurd habit of 
knocking upon her door just before dinner, entering 
for a moment’s chat and then escorting her downstairs 
with all the gravity of a bridegroom. He only omitted 
this rite when Miles was absent. And Miles, at dinner, 
would as calmly monopolize the girl’s attention in his 
deliberate, clever discussions of events and books and 
personalities, with obviously the same object in mind. 
Helga’s nerves were becoming frayed. It was not as 
though she were even the coy object of the interest of 
two lovers. She was perfectly aware of Drake’s real 
emotions and she was only half certain that Miles’ 
actions and looks were sincere. At any rate, to both 
men she was apparently only an object of rivalry, and 
the real issue excluded her. 

It was humiliating and she would endure it no 
longer. 

One night Drake entered after knocking, as usual. 
He sat down at the Winthrop desk that had replaced 
the exquisite little gray affair and idly examined the 
pigeonholes and drawers. Helga, who was arranging 
a bandeau on her hair suddenly paused with arms up¬ 
lifted. The letter! The letter that she had removed 
carelessly from the other desk and placed in this one. 
Where was it? Which drawer? It might be one of 
Drake’s own letters to Leda—and what would he 
think? In her nervous excitement she spoke sharply 
to attract his attention. 

“I suppose Miles is to be with us tonight again? I 
thought he was to be in New York until tomorrow.” 

“What makes you think he has returned?” 


214 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Your being here, of course. I am never honored 
with this sort of attention unless he is here. Oh!” 
She flung the discarded ribbon upon the table fiercely 
and whirled around. “I’m sick of all this business, 
Drake, and it’s positively childish. If you and Miles 
can’t get along—why are we staying here? I should 
think you would be too proud to accept his hospitality 
and return only rudeness. You may have had the 
excuse of your sickness before, bu£ now you’re only 
acting like a boy who has the habit of being spoiled and 
rude. It humiliates me, Drake, and should humiliate 
you! ” 

Drake’s face did not even change. 

“I’m not ready to go yet,” he said noncommittally. 

“What are you waiting for—to be asked to leave?” 

“Miles won’t ask it, as long as you are here.” 

“That’s an insult, Drake.” 

“Is it? You can take it any way you please. Per¬ 
haps I only meant that he is interested in you as his— 
protegee. But we can go into that point further if you 
like.” Helga averted her eyes nervously. 

“I—I don’t want to quarrel with you, Drake,” she 
murmured, “but I feel so uncomfortable all the time. 
Do you mean to go on this way indefinitely?” 

“No,” and his broad shoulders straightened omi¬ 
nously, “not indefinitely. Shall we go down?” And 
with his usual grave formality he opened the door and 
waited for her to pass out. Helga sighed. The same 
ridiculous scene that was staged every night, and she 
knew that the regulation dinner act would follow it as 
closely. It was tiresome. 

After dinner she escaped into the library and saw to 
her delight that Doctor Mallow was entering the 
French window. 

With a gay greeting, she inquired eagerly for Frankie 


VENUS’S MASK IS TORN 


215 


and with only a word quitted the three men and re¬ 
traced the Doctor’s steps across the garden. The 
knowledge that Miles had started forward with a pro¬ 
test at her desertion, that Drake had scowled, only 
made her savor her release more thankfully. Frankie 
was spending a mournful evening as Bob had left for a 
week’s trip, and she greeted Helga with delight. 

“I was dying for company, but I’m so blue I couldn’t 
bear to go over to your place and watch Miles and 
Drake glaring at each other and you fidgeting coyly. 
What do you say to the movies?” she added as she 
saw Helga’s discomfiture at her comment, and rat¬ 
tling on, she dragged her out to the garage. For the 
next two hours, Helga was allowed to forget the situa¬ 
tions she had left. 

It was eleven when she returned, and she noted 
instantly that there was a light in Drake’s room, but 
none in Miles’. The latter was probably still in the 
library enjoying his last cigar. She had no intention 
of being drawn into a tete-a-tete. She was still fasci¬ 
nated by him, but the experience on the boulevard had 
told her that she should avoid being alone with him. 
The thought of lover-like attentions, even unrecipro¬ 
cated, was definitely distasteful. It was as though 
their respective and former attitudes were completely 
reversed with a few differences. So it was that she 
tiptoed quietly down the hall toward the stairs. But 
opposite the heavy portieres, she paused. 

Some one was with Miles. The Doctor. She hesi¬ 
tated, wondering whether to enter. As she did so, she 
heard her own name, in the Doctor’s resonant bass. 

‘Tm apologizing to you, Miles, though I think your 
wisdom was only confirmed after the event. Drake is 
falling in love with Helga or I’m a moth-eaten mole.” 

The girl stood rooted to the spot, cheeks flaming. 


216 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


She was hardly conscious she was eavesdropping, so 
eager was she to see the situation through another’s un¬ 
jaundiced eyes. 

“H’m!” Miles’ voice was lower. “I hardly think 

so. She’s not his type-” 

“His type? Man, they were made for each other— 
and you know it. I know this was in the back of your 
mind, and I’m sorry I couldn’t seem to see it at the 
time. But it looked like a terrible risk—for her.” 

There was a short silence. Then Miles spoke bit¬ 
terly, and without restraint. 

“I wish to God I had taken your advice then! ” 
“Miles! Miles, do you mean you, too—for God’s 

sake man, you haven’t for gotten -?” The Doctor’s 

voice was grave, almost stern. Helga realized what 
she was doing, with a start. Breathless, she slipped off 
her shoes and ran lightly down the hall and up the 
stairs. As she reached the landing, the light which 
shone faintly from beneath Drake’s door, vanished. 

She entered her room, and after lighting the low 
lamp by her bed, stood irresolutely glancing at her 
desk. She must put that letter back. Drake might 
search for it in the attic any time—and she must run 
no risk of any one finding it in her room. For the first 
time in several weeks she now had an opportunity of 
returning it. For the first time since she had returned, 
her every footstep outside her room was not being 
dogged by one or the other of the two men. Drake 
was asleep, and Miles probably launched on a long 
and intimate talk. She had cast from her mind the 
substance of the conversation she had overheard. Only 
she and Miles knew the real reason for Drake’s de¬ 
voted attitude and she could hardly wonder that the 
Doctor had misinterpreted it. She refused to speculate 
on Miles’ fierce repudiation of the theory and the 



VENUS’S MASK IS TORN 


217 


unbridled regret he had expressed. She could not 
afford to think, to speculate on these things. 

Rousing herself with a start from this half-reverie, 
she went to her desk and sought the letter briskly, 
tucked away as it was in a far corner. It was with 
a sense of relief that she again held it in her hand and 
studied it reflectively. It looked as though it might be 
Drake’s writing, firm and black, though she would 
have thought he would write a less dashing script. She 
thrust it down the bosom of her dress and left the 
room, first pocketing her small searchlight. She half 
remembered having seen electric fixtures in the garret, 
but she would take no chances. 

Down the hall she sped, ran lightly up to the third 
floor corridor in which a light was faintly burning, and 
opened the door which led to the third flight of stairs. 
She closed it behind her noiselessly and then flashed 
on her light. On one unpapered wall she saw an elec¬ 
tric-light button and this she instantly switched on 
before she ran up the stairs. At the entrance to the 
garret she stood looking around her. 

Though the bulbs which lighted it were old, dusty 
and dim, there was still more light than could enter it 
in the daytime, there were fewer shadows, and in spite 
of the hour, the attic seemed smaller and less eerie. 
Her eyes sought the wardrobe trunk and almost imme¬ 
diately found it. She had taken one step across the 
creaking wooden boards when she found herself in 
darkness. Some one had switched off the light. It 
could only be Miles, for the servants had retired. 
There was but one thing to do, for already she heard a 
cautious step on the stair. She went to the head of the 
flight and called. 

“Who’s there?” And then deliberately flashed her 
torch into the man’s eyes. It was Miles, who with 


218 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


hands braced against either wall looked up at her with 
frowning, puzzled eyes. 

“Oh, it’s you,” she said in a matter-of-fact way, as 
though relieved. “Come up. I’m hunting for some¬ 
thing.” She stepped back out of his line of eyesight 
and deliberately drawing a negligee pin from under her 
shoulder straps, she tossed it from her, and reappeared 
before he had hardly taken two steps. 

“Isn’t this an odd time to hunt for things?” he asked 
lightly. 

“Is it? I just got back from the movies, remem¬ 
bered that I had lost a pin up here that day weeks ago 
when you and Drake came up—remember?” She 
spoke as prosaically as possible, realizing how inade¬ 
quate her excuse must sound. “It’s not much of a pin, 
but it has a sentimental value and I’d hate to lose it 
permanently. So I just ran up while I remembered it.” 

There was a suppressed excitement in Miles’ eyes as 
he looked at her, yet it hardly seemed that he was tak¬ 
ing in her words. 

“This is the first time I’ve seen you alone for 
ages.” 

“A week,” dryly. “If you’ll run down and turn on 
the light again, I’ll look for this pin. I’m getting 
sleepy.” He made no move. Then he slipped the 
torch from her hand and swept it about the attic. The 
light halted a perceptible instant on the wardrobe 
trunk, touched other battered luggage, and finally nar¬ 
rowed to a point a few feet from them. 

“Something glitters there,” he said absent-mindedly. 

Helga forestalled him, and swept the trinket up. 
She displayed it only an instant, that his eyes might 
not note what a trifle it was, and then she slipped it 
into the bosom of her dress. As she did so her fingers 
touched the rough edges of the letter. Oh Lord, no 


VENUS’S MASK IS TORN 


219 


chance now! She had better get down to her room 
quickly. 

“That’s fine, Miles. Let’s go.” 

“Wait a minute, Helga.” He put a tense hand on 
her wrist. “I want to talk to you. You never give me 
a chance any more.” For a moment she almost fell 
under the old spell of unquestioning obedience. Then 
she remembered and slowly drew away her hand. 

“This isn’t the hour or place to talk, Miles,” she 
said sharply. “You know that. Come, give me the 
light.” 

Miles muttered something savagely beneath his 
breath, there was a subdued click, and then they stood 
in darkness. His hand had touched the torch, acci¬ 
dentally or otherwise as he passed it to her. The next 
moment she could feel his arms about her. 

“Damn Drake,” he flung at her, “he’s a dog in the 
manger!” 

The girl freed herself with a single motion of the 
arm, flashed on the light and stood facing the man 
with trembling lips. 

“I think you are crazy, Miles, or insulting,” she 
said quietly, and turned her back on him. For a 
moment he stood there, pallid, his shoulders drooping. 
Then he took a quick step, caught her arm and swung 
her around, so that the light focussed on his working 
face. 

“Perhaps I am,” bitterly, “but I have a few rights, 
decent rights that are being trampled upon every 
moment.” 

“You call your present action—a decent right?” 

“No. Call it anything. But you have no call to 
take the attitude of a loving and deeply offended wife. 
You’re not married, and you know it. I’ll apologize 
though, if you’ll wait one second.” 


220 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


He seated himself on a trunk, and half impelled by 
the unhappy eyes that looked at her in the faint light, 
the girl gingerly seated herself on the farther edge. 

“Quickly, please, if you really have anything to say, 
Miles.” The man did not look at her. 

“I just want you to understand—that I did not think 
my—my actions would offend—Venus Petersen!” The 
girl sprang trembling to her feet. All her world was 
crashing about her and she put out a wavering hand. 
The man did not stir, but his eyes held her with their 
grim mockery. 

“Didn’t suspect I knew that, eh? Well, I have— 
ever since that night you did the heroine act in the 
fire—when you accepted the wrap I gave you after¬ 
wards with as casual an air as a vaudeville performer, 
which I suppose you were. And now,” his voice grew 
menacing, “I want to ask you by what right you 
assumed my name—our name, by what argument you 
arrived at the conclusion that you would be acceptable 
as the feminine head of—the—Gellert household!” 

Helga was instantly calm. She knew Miles well 
enough to know that his anger was feigned on this 
point, that for some reason he was attempting to ter¬ 
rify her. She sat down again. 

“I am Venus Petersen, and if you have been inter¬ 
ested to look up my record while you were in New 
York—” she saw him wince, “you know that it is a 
more than respectable record. And you now know 
that my eagerness to drop that identity was not shame, 
but the dislike of being always looked upon—as a 
freak. Is this blackmail by any chance?” coolly. 

“My God, no!” There was real horror in his voice. 
“I suppose I’m a cad for telling you—but your high- 
and-mighty attitude and elusiveness the last few days 
have—hurt me. You know I care for you—and you 


VENUS’S MASK IS TORN 


221 


liked me until Drake stepped in with his damnable 
jealousy—a trait that he should have learned to fight 
against long ago.” 

“All this is so futile, Miles,” Helga said, half sadly. 
“What are you driving at? Of course, now that you 
know, I must tell Drake.” The man jumped up. 

“Don’t do it.” 

“Why not—now?” 

“It would kill any—feeling he has toward you. His 
experience with Leda has embittered him against 
women of your general—profession.” 

“I thought he worshipped her.” 

“He did, in a sulky, boyish way, but he was tre¬ 
mendously jealous, and she egged him on. The devil 
was in both of them and they tore at each other in 
cat-and-dog ways all the time. One of her favorite 
methods of infuriating him was to drag in all her rag- 
tag-and-bob-tail friends who bored her as >t ,much as 
they did Drake. He hardly believes that the acting 
world possesses a decent woman. He only believes 
that Leda escaped that taint by a miracle. But she 
was shallow, unreliable, fickle, and he knew it—and 
believed she was representative in that way.” 

“That’s hardly consistent.” 

“Who’s consistent in love? If you told him now 
who you were, he’d believe it simply showed your 
scheming nature.” 

“There was no deceit about the contract. I had 
nothing to hide-” 

“Except that you didn’t know Drake’s mania on the 
subject. He’ll never believe we both didn’t know; 
I, your real identity, and you, the reason you must hide 
it from him.” 

The girl passed a weary hand across her forehead. 

“But if you had guessed, Miles, Drake must find out 



222 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


sometime. It would be better for me to tell him, and 
go, if he wants me to.” 

“He won’t want you to-” escaped from Miles’ 

lips and then he bit them. The girl smiled faintly at 
him. 

“I don’t believe you know what Drake wants, what I 
want—or what you want,” she said slowly. “I must 
think this over. Good-night, Miles.” She rose and 
he followed her to the head of the staircase. As they 
looked into each other’s eyes, Miles suddenly stooped 
and pressed her hand to his lips. 

“I see I’m a generation too late,” he measured out 
the syllables. “But don’t judge me too hastily, will 
you, Helga? Am I still your—friend? You know,” 
he went on brokenly, “in spite of all I have said, that 
Drake has been my whole life the last few years. 
Grant me a little credit, my dear—and forgive me.” 

The girl’s face softened instantly. 

“Of course, Miles. All three of us seem to be get¬ 
ting twisted up these days. Good-night.” 

But she did not hear Miles’ footsteps behind her as 
she reached the bottom of the stairs. 

She undressed mechanically when she had closed 
the door of her room behind her, and almost as me¬ 
chanically she drew out the letter, warm from her 
flesh, and thrust it back into the desk. After all, she 
had not gotten rid of it. She turned out the lights, 
and, for the first time in many years, tears wet her 
cheeks as she fell asleep. 



XV 

Drake Takes a Hand 



ELGA and Miles looked up with some sur¬ 
prise as Drake entered the breakfast room 
the next morning. Though his hours had 
been more regular since his recovery, he 
was rarely seen in the early morning. 

“What does this appearance bode?” the girl asked 
gayly. 

The sunlight pouring in upon them made all her 
problems dwindle perceptibly. Looking at Drake as 
he stood there in his smart business suit, broad, prac¬ 
tical, groomed, it did not seem terrifying to imagine 
herself telling him her whole story. She could almost 
see him throwing back his head, laughing, just as he 
laughed now at their mild surprise. 

“It means that I’m getting back on the job today,” 
he said, pulling out his chair. “I’ve been looking over 
things at the office more or less, and trying to decide 
whether I had the right to project myself into affairs 
there—after so long a time. But I can see that I’m 
needed.” 

“Is it your business?” Helga queried a little timidly. 
He nodded. 

“Part of the family concerns, turned over to me 
when I grew up. Miles,” he spoke a little grudgingly, 
“Miles has been nursing it along for me very well.” 
The older man raised his eyes for the first time since 
his initial glance at his nephew. 

“Thank you, Drake,” quietly. “I’m glad you’re 
going back. If I can help you in any way let me know. 

223 










224 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


I wasn’t aware that you had been—looking the thing 
up.” 

“Just the last week or so,” his nephew answered him 
airily, and attacked his breakfast. Then he turned to 
Helga. 

“I shall be a shattered wreck tonight after my first 
working day in some years,” he announced. “How 
would you like to go to the Braebum dance with me 
tonight?” 

“Miles just asked me,” the girl said impulsively and 
then bit her lip at the older man’s frown. Drake 
looked coolly across at the latter. 

“I win by virtue of the prior right, don’t I?” he 
announced rather than asked, and Miles shrugged. 

“By all means. I am happy that you should want 
to go. You will have to excuse me now. I have some 
papers to look over and then I must run in town. Can 
I give you a lift, Drake, or shall you take your own 
car?” Drake shook his head. 

“No. I’m going in by train today just to get the 
scent of business battle in my nostrils—like an old 
war-horse, you know. Just gazing at the same old 
commuters will give me quite a kick.” Miles glanced 
at his watch. 

“It’s nearly ten, now,” he said dryly. “I’m afraid 
you’ll find a greater proportion of leisurely women bent 
on shopping.” Then with a nod, he left them. 

“You haven’t accepted my invitation yet,” Drake 
reminded the girl. Helga pushed her plate aside and 
dropped her chin into her cupped hands. 

“I’d love to,” she murmured. “You know that. I’m 
only wondering. You haven’t been out there in ages— 
and I know no one. You may have only me to dance 
with.” 

“Frankie will be there,” he said carelessly, “with 


DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


225 


some one of her numerous admirers, and she’ll see that 
you meet the men you should. As for me, I shall be 
perfectly well satisfied if I can dance only with you.” 

“That’s very sweet of you—but you’re taking a 
chance, aren’t you?” He answered her ruefully. 

“It’s you that are taking the chance. I haven’t 
danced since the—armistice. Have dances changed 
much?” The girl dimpled. 

“A little. But if you were good before, you can 
quickly catch on now. Are you going?” 

“Yes, I must.” Then he leaned across the table, 
“Your dress—the gold one you wore the other night is 
rather a wreck, as I remember. But you must wear 
an even prettier one tonight.” Then he leaned down 
and brushed her forehead with his lips. 

“Just to feel like the regular commuter,” he said 
imperturbably, and without hearing her slight gasp, 
he left her. 

Helga had often passed the great clubhouse that 
sprawled on the hill, and had even played tennis on 
the courts there occasionally with Frankie. But she 
had never been inside the club rooms, so now she 
looked up at the dark mass with awe as the car halted 
under the porte-cochere. And as she entered the 
ladies’ dressing room, she felt her cheeks burn with 
excitement and some nervousness. The room was 
filled with pretty girls, most of them very young, very 
slight, very much rouged and bobbed. There was only 
a brief lull in the chatter as she entered and then in a 
well-bred way it was instantly resumed, but Helga 
knew, though no eye was now turned her way, that she 
had been noted and summed up. She felt herself an 
alien to these brilliant little butterflies, yet the mirror 
told her, as she timidly took her place before it, that 


226 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


she had nothing to fear by contrast. The dress she 
wore tonight was green—green and clinging—and the 
note was repeated by the green stones in the bronze 
hair and in the buckles of her slippers. A jade-hued 
ostrich fan hung at her wrist. 

There was no reason why she should feel out of 
place, for her glance registered the respect that the 
girls accorded her gown. But the interchange of Chris¬ 
tian names, the familiar badinage and mysterious code 
of these girls, all made her desire to regain Drake’s 
side as soon as she might. He was waiting for her, 
and his look was homage. 

“I have never seen you look better,” he remarked. 
Was there triumph in his emphasis? “You’re going to 
be the sensation tonight.” Then a faint discontent 
appeared in his look. 

“What’s the matter?” she asked a little anxiously. 
He leaned nearer so that his words might not be over¬ 
heard. 

“I forgot to turn over the family jools to you,” he 
said lightly, “and I should have.” 

“But I don’t care for jewelry.” 

“You should have these just the same. And—you 
should have an engagement ring. Some one should 
have reminded me—at the time,” he said almost irri¬ 
tably, as he looked at the single band on her finger. 

“Why, Drake,” she said simply, “don’t think about 
it again. I haven’t. Under the circumstances there 
was—and is—no necessity.” He made no reply to her 
reassuring declaration but drew her through the group 
of men that filled the doorway of the ballroom. The 
evening was well under way, the orchestra playing, and 
without a word their steps were joined. The girl found 
him rather a formal dancer, but one whose sense of 
rhythm and whose suppleness wanted only practice 


DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


227 


for him to become an excellent if not exceptional 
dancer. He looked down at her as they threaded their 
way through the room. 

“How light you are,” he said almost wonderingly. 
She laughed. 

“Am I really as much of an Amazon as that?” 

“Of course not. You give the impression of slender¬ 
ness, but I know your strength and somehow—well,” 
he paused in embarrassment and she supplied impishly, 
“You thought I would step on your toes in a muscular 
and determined fashion?” He laughed, but made no 
answer. A moment later, Frankie bore down upon 
them, a small tug surrounded by a convoy of battle¬ 
ships in the persons of several men. She looked more 
Puckish than ever this evening in her brief skirts. 

“Good for you, folkses,” she commented, tactfully 
expressing no surprise at Drake’s presence. Then she 
turned to Helga and presented to her the other men. 
Only one of them—rather older than the others—knew 
Drake, and the girl could detect no interest in his non¬ 
committal greeting. It was apparent that the Gellert 
family retained its solid prestige, but that the young 
world had not been interested in following its obscure 
fortunes. Helga was relieved. After all, the non¬ 
chalance of the present day, a day which had abolished 
formal calls, had its compensations. 

She looked back as she drifted off with a new part¬ 
ner, and saw Frankie leading Drake from the room. 
She felt a moment’s annoyance. She would never get 
over the little feeling of resentment that these two 
could be so companionable. If she had done the same 
with Bob? She smiled to herself. Frankie’s utter 
unconsciousness of the claims she made on other men, 
and her eagle-eyed chaperonage of her own husband, 
were facts no longer new to Helga—but so foreign to 


228 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


her own character that she generally looked upon them 
with amused tolerance. It was Frankie, just Frankie 
with all her faults, charms, big generosities and incon¬ 
ceivable pettinesses. 

It was only some time later that she was able to 
escape to the ladies’ dressing room. She would not 
have been a normal girl if she had not enjoyed, in spite 
of her weariness, the knowledge that it was the only 
spot where she would not be pursued and begged for 
a dance. Frankie was there, perched on a chair and 
enjoying a surreptitious smoke. Two very young girls 
were standing before her and chattering gaily. She 
rose as Helga entered and pulled the latter down be¬ 
side her, before she performed the introductions. Then 
she waved at them with her cigarette. 

“These babes, eighteen and sixteen, respectively, 
have sneaked in here for a drink from Zuzu’s flask,” 
she said, “and they want us to join them.” She studied 
Helga’s face impishly. “Want to?” 

Helga shook her head, smilingly, simply. 

“Thank you, no,” she said and added, “one of the 
chaperones is coming.” The two girls gave frightened 
starts and eagerly ducked from the room. Helga 
turned to Frankie. 

“They’re your friends,” she said indignantly. “Why 
didn’t you say something? Children like that!” 
Frankie shrugged. 

“What’s the use? They all do it. The whole 
younger generation is goin’ to the dogs,” she added 
moodily. Helga laughed. 

“That’s what they’ve always said. And what would 
F. Scott Fitzgerald and the others do if they weren’t? 
But I suppose it’s no more true of this generation 
than of all the others.” 

“But it is.” Frankie bit off her words. “Always 


DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


229 


before, it’s been the father and grandfather generation 
that’s done the worrying and the sobbing over the good 
old days. But now it’s the older-sister crowd that’s 
most pessimistic—my generation. We belong to both 
periods—post and pre-war. We had liberty but ade¬ 
quate chaperonage. We at least had some standards, 
even if we didn’t always follow ’em. We’re old enough 
to remember what we’ve been taught; young enough 
to play on the fringe of this generation. We know— 
and only we—that the oldsters and youngsters don’t 
even speak the same language. The motto of uncle’s 
generation was: ‘Be good, sweet child, and let who 
will be clever.’ The motto of this young crowd is: 
‘Be clever, sweet child, if you can’t be good.’ ” 

Helga laughed. 

“Good heavens, you are pessimistic,” she said. 
“Well, Frankie, I’m only twenty—one of this bunch, 
and I don’t smoke, drink, or swear.” 

“Ah,” said Frankie absent-mindedly, “but you’re 
one of the great lower middle class.” There was a 
dead silence before the older girl realized what she 
had said. Then she did the only thing she could have 
done. She turned and laid her hand on Helga’s mo¬ 
tionless arm, and spoke simply. 

“That sounded horrible, my dear, because I didn’t 
really mean it that way. You are—are a lady (good 
Lord, how I hate that word!) in every sense of the 
word—a girl with breeding. But your very standards, 
your very naivete at your age, could only come out of 
such a home—that and—your marriage into the Gel- 
lert family. I haven’t explained, I never can explain— 
just forgive me, will you?” Helga brushed an imagi¬ 
nary wrinkle from her lap. Then she gave Frankie a 
slow smile from which she had magically wiped the 
pain. 


230 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Certainly I forgive you,” she said quietly as she 
arose, “because—you were right.” But Frankie re¬ 
mained behind. 

“Damn,” she said softly. 

Helga found Drake watching the dancers. She laid 
a hand on his arm. “Let’s go, Drake, shall we?” 

“Bored?” he said keenly. 

“No, just tired. I’ve had a heavenly time——” 

“You’re the most popular girl on the floor.” 

“I was just new, that was all. But really, I’d just 
as soon go now.” 

“Righto.” 

A few minutes later they were in the car. Helga 
studied the windows as they framed, for swift mo¬ 
ments, snatches of velvety dark fields or a small house 
set far back from the road and glowing as though each 
window were a pulsing heart. She found Drake’s 
hand over hers. 

“I am proud of you, Helga,” he said as unself¬ 
consciously as though he had spoken aloud but a 
fragment of his thought. “You are a beautiful girl, 
and what is more, a lovely one. Girls aren’t lovely 
any more—they are snappy, peppy, smart. But it’s 
as though they were born with the bloom rubbed off 
their wings—even when they’re scarcely more than 
children. They’re adorable, but adorable brats! Not 
that there’s anything demure or clinging about you—” 
he turned to her with a shy laugh, “but you seem real, 
as though you ran straight and true.” 

Helga opened her lips. There was a rush of warmth, 
a rush of gratitude in her heart for Drake that he 
should have given her this opportunity. In this mo¬ 
ment, in the purring silence and darkness of the car, 
she could make a clean breast of it. But his next 
words gave her pause. 



DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


231 


“I’m glad,” he said, “that you are what you are. 
If I have ever hurt you, as I did the other day about 
your—your friend—I want you to understand. I 
could talk to you a little about—Leda, now. Our mar¬ 
riage was a mistake. Don’t misunderstand me. No 
one is so contemptible as a person who denies a love 
that has been, whether it no longer exists or not. I 
did love her, I was crazy about her, and she about me, 
I think. I loved her—individually, but she was not 
the type I could love. As I look back now I see that 
I was insanely jealous, suspicious—perhaps I still 
could be, but I also see that she gave me more 
than reason, even though she was really—faithful. But 
her friends, her pursuits were—meretricious. They 
couldn’t help but be, for her whole life had been the 
stage. She wanted excitement, adulation—more than 
I could give her. A man—a man of my type is a fool 
that marries a woman of that profession!” Helga’s 
hand lay slackly in his. 

“You are hard,” she said quietly. She had never 
heard Drake say so much, reveal so much as he was 
now doing, and his very volubility chilled her as much 
as the menacing words. One can attack reason with 
logic—but not prejudice. He laughed down at her. 

“You—what do you know about it! Oh, I don’t 
know who you were before I knew you—but I know 
what you were not. There is nothing cheap, nothing 
common, nothing standardized about you. In spite of 
— Miles — I know you better than he. I haven’t 
watched you and lived weeks with you at the camp 
without knowing you—my dear.” 

The car slowed down in front of the house, but for 
a moment the girl could not move. Fear, excitement, a 
realization that in his last two words something tre¬ 
mendous had happened to her, kept her motionless. 


232 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


Then without a word, though he stooped and peered 
keenly into her face, she ran up the steps. 

She found Frankie and Bob in the reception hall. 
To her astonished queries, Frankie replied gayly. 

“Bob returned suddenly and ’phoned me at the club 
that he was here with Miles. You people must have 
gone the long way,” she grinned with good-natured 
malice at Drake, and there was some curiosity in her 
look. Miles came to meet them as they entered the 
library. 

“Did you have a good time?” he asked Helga indif¬ 
ferently, but his miserable look said more. She knew 
then that he intended to punish her for having deserted 
him—that she was always to be under his displeasure 
if she seemed to have enjoyed herself away from him. 

“Helga looks tired,” he said to Drake abruptly. The 
latter removed his coat in a leisurely fashion and 
seated himself on the edge of the divan, his arm across 
the back of it—so near to his wife’s head that she 
dared not stir. She was hardly listening. 

“She had a right to be. She and Frankie paid the 
price for being too popular.” Bob Reynolds gave a 
whoop and, swooping across the room, gathered 
Frankie into his arms and pretended to toss her into 
the air. 

“Think of it! Having a wife who’s both charming 
and clever—and all in a pocket edition,” he bellowed. 
Then he set her down, and while she was adjusting her 
hair and dress, looking very much like a ruffled little 
hen, he turned and smiled mysteriously at the group 
around him. “But I have something on her,” he 
grinned impishly, “and hereafter I can blackmail her.” 

“What’s that?” Frankie asked with calm interest. 
He laid a finger to his lips, looked around to be sure 
he had everybody’s attention, and then drew from his 


DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


233 


pocket a large paper, evidently folded and refolded a 
number of times. His whole air of including each of 
them in some amusing conspiracy held their interest. 
He deliberately unfolded the paper, keeping the blank 
side toward them. 

“Frankie,” he said, “you’re a plagiarist. I have 
something here, which I claim is, in execution, more 
technically correct than your picture, your latest pic¬ 
ture. This is obviously the original pose—and the 
colors are far more intriguing. Behold! ” He flung the 
paper wide with dramatic effect, so that the picture 
stood out startlingly clear, even under the low lights. 
“Behold The Wounded Amazon in chromo. I charge 
my wife with petty larceny.” 

There was no sound from the group, but all eyes 
were on the poster, for it was a poster. 

It portrayed an exceedingly pretty girl, with incred¬ 
ibly yellow hair, and incredibly white skin, encased in 
a scant bathing costume. She was seated perilously 
near the edge of the cross mast of a ship. Below her, 
miniature figures on the deck were supposed to indi¬ 
cate the ghastly height on which she perched. That 
was not all, though it was enough. Straight across the 
top of the frenzied artist’s daub, ran large, black 
letters: 

COME AND SEE VENUS PETERSEN, THE GIRL 
WITH THE PERFECT FIGURE, DO A 
THRILLING TIGHT-ROPE ACT. 
YOUNGEST AND MOST DARING OF 

THE FIVE DARING PETERSENS 

WORLD FAMOUS! 

WORLD FAMOUS!!! 

WORLD FAMOUS!!! 




234 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


And in small type at the bottom could be discerned 
even at this distance the words: 


There is hardly a feat of daring this girl has not 
performed. There is no feat of daring she will not 
perform in the future. Now is your chance to see her! 


Bob Reynolds looked about him with an uncertain 
laugh. Then he studied Helga’s immobile face with 
growing wonder, conviction, and uneasiness. 

“I say!” he gasped, “it really is you—isn’t it? I 
never dreamed—I just saw the resemblance—it was 

in a shoeblacking parlor and- Oh, damn it all, 

Frankie, have I put my foot in it?” His wife gave 
him a venomous glance as she arose and took him by 
the arm. The paper fluttered from his hands but no 
one made a move to retrieve it. 

“I’ll say you have,” she said with fierce emphasis. 
“Come on, we’re going home.” They moved toward 
the door, hesitated an instant and then were gone. 

Still there was silence. Helga’s neck was numb with 
rigidity, yet it was as though she were a marionette, 
waiting with a stiff smile, to be jerked into life. Then 
Drake arose, from the divan, and with an unhurried 
step approached the poster. He did not look at Miles, 
who sat with his head in his hands, nor at his wife. 
But he stooped, picked up the paper. Then with final, 
ghastly thoroughness he tore the thing into four parts, 
cast it into the fire, and walked out of the room. 
To the girl, it was as though he had stripped her of all 
pretences, looked with distaste on the thing she was— 
and disclaimed her. It was Venus Petersen, the girl 
she had been, the girl she really was, who twisted and 
burned in agony on that smoldering mound of embers. 




DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


235 


The poster writhed like a sentient thing, a glimpse of 
yellow and red was visible, and then it crumbled 
blackly and became dead ash. 

How could it hurt so much—this knowledge of 
Drake’s, and his reaction? She had speculated on this 
possibility for days, and conceived various scenes, had 
faced the situation since the night before. Yet, in that 
ride home with Drake, something had changed. Some¬ 
thing had become more precious to her, more possible. 
And that something had been killed, brutally, thought¬ 
lessly, with a prelude of inane merriment. She hated 
Bob Reynolds. She could have told Drake. Oh, God, 
why hadn’t she? Then for the first time, she laid her 
head down on the arm of the couch. 

She was alive to Miles’ presence for the first time 
when she felt him kneel beside her. Then his hand 
touched her hair with real tenderness, and there was 
real sincerity in his voice. 

“It was damnable, damnable. But my dear, my 
dear—you knew it had to happen—sometime.” The 
girl sat up and pushed the hair back from her fore¬ 
head. 

“Not like that!” she said with fierce protest. “Not 
like that! I could have told him—so that he would 
see some of the adventure—the—the romance—under¬ 
stand a little. And now he will never see anything but 
the—vulgarity of that poster.” She added with a 
childish irrelevance that held a plea, “I look older 
there, but I was barely fourteen.” 

“I know, I know,” he comforted her, “but now you 
must brace up. I’ll talk to Drake-” 

“No,” she said in alarm, putting out a hand, “you 
mustn’t—he hates you.” For the moment her emo¬ 
tion was all selfish. Miles rose to his feet but retained 
the hand she had flung out. His face was colder now, 



236 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


and there was a hint of triumph in it, but his voice was 
still low. 

“What are you going to do now, my dear?” 

“Have it out with Drake, of course!” He shook his 
head sadly. 

“I’m afraid there’s no use. You know how bitterly 
he holds a prejudice. You have seen it in my case.” 

“But—he cares for me,” the girl said, hardly aware 
of the man to whom she spoke. Miles’ mouth was 
twisted, but he still controlled himself. Then he 
turned his palms outward in a repressed gesture. 

“And—he once cared for me,” he reminded her 
quietly. Then he leaned down and drew her toward 
him. 

“This nightmare is over now—and any dream you 
may have had, my dear. You have liked me—per¬ 
haps more than that, a little. Will you put this affair 
in my hands, will you trust me and believe that I will 
do the best I can?” The girl’s composure was re¬ 
turning. 

“And what is your best?” she said directly meeting 
his eyes. His face was suffused with a dark flush. 

“To leave Drake to work out his own salvation— 
and persuade you to marry me,” he finally said, with 
measured syllables. “Ah, wait a moment, let me say 
it. I have given my best to Drake, you have given 
your best. He doesn’t want either of us.” 

“I don’t love you, Miles.” Stark truths were com¬ 
ing out, now. 

“That’s a lie. You did, anyway.” Through the 
girl’s mind flashed Drake’s words, “No one is so con¬ 
temptible as one who denies a love that has been” 

“Perhaps I did, in an immature way,” she admitted 
slowly. “I don’t know love well enough to be sure. 
But I am sure that what feeling there was—is dead. 


DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


237 


And if you speak further to me in this way, Miles, my 
staying here is impossible.” She stepped past him 
and he bowed. At the door she turned suddenly and 
caught the ugly frown with which he was studying the 
fire. 

“Miles,” she said, “can’t we at least be friends?” 

“Won’t you be my brother?” he mimicked sardoni¬ 
cally, and then added contemptuously, “No! As a 
friend you have no value to me!” 

It was a strategic mistake, this last attempted bully¬ 
ing of the girl. She straightened. The naked mean¬ 
ing of his words came home with a finality that made 
concrete her keener analysis of him. 

“Very well,” she said quietly, “then let us be—ships 
that pass in the night.” She was gone. 

She went to her room and without allowing herself 
to pause and think over the true disastrousness of what 
had happened, she knocked at Drake’s door—the con¬ 
necting door between their rooms. There was a low 
answer, after a moment’s silence in which her heart 
pounded with thick, muffled strokes against her side, 
and then she entered. For a moment she stood uncer¬ 
tainly in the doorway, looking at Drake. 

There was a fire in the grate as though he had felt 
the September chill, and there, in a large armchair, he 
crouched low to the blaze. For a moment she saw 
only the clean-cut silhouette of his profile against the 
fire, then he slowly turned. The thought passed 
swiftly through her that this was the first time she 
had entered this room since the night of the fire. The 
same realization must have attacked him, too, for he 
rose and the lines of his face seemed to have softened 
momentarily as he drew another chair forward for 
her. 

“How cold your hands are,” he said abstractedly. 


238 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Sit nearer the grate. The last time you were here, I 
remember how hot your fingers were.” 

“Oh, Drake,” interrupted Helga, feeling the mean¬ 
ness of binding her plea to the debt he owed her, yet 
desperately snatching at this straw, “because of that 
night—I have dared to ask you to let me explain. 
Will you?” He filled his pipe, but she noted that 
his hands trembled. 

“There is no obligation on you to explain,” he said 
courteously. “There is only the fact to be accepted, 
isn’t there?” 

“Then you weren’t angry,” she said timidly, uncom- 
prehendingly, “when you left the room?” He looked 
at her and a blast of rage swept his features that left 
them empty of color. She shrank from the icy bleak¬ 
ness of his eyes. 

“Angry?” he repeated. “Angry? No! I should 
have expected as much from my precious uncle—that 
he should foist upon me a wife whom he knew I—I—” 
The girl’s lips were compressed but she looked stead¬ 
ily at him as though she were anxious the blade should 
press home to her heart with merciful speediness. 

“Yes, Drake, that you-?” 

But the man groaned and buried his head again in 
his hands. 

“Ah, Helga, I can’t believe this thing is true. That 
you, so straight, so womanly—should be this—cheap, 
man-handled thing—whose likeness can be found in 
any—bootblacking shop!” 

“It’s a lie,” she said in a low voice. “I am no more 
man-handled, considerably less so, than most of your 
flapper friends.” 

He looked up at her dully. 

“Why did you do this thing? Why did you marry 
me? From what kind of an environment do you come 



DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


239 


that that devilish poster should be—of you? You 
knew, you must have known—what our—our family 
was, has been. There was reason behind that secrecy 
of yours, that contract! ” The girl laughed hysteri¬ 
cally. 

“Reason! Of course there was a reason. You— 
you snob, you know I had health, some money, a good 
record in college. Why should a girl with everything 
ever marry you? Ah! that unwelcome thought never 
occurred to you! I had something you lacked—and 
you had something I lacked—and that is family! Yet 
I have nothing that the general world would be 
ashamed of. It was just that I wanted my chance at 
the things I cared for—education, breeding, a decent 
seclusion. This was the only way I could have that 
chance, by ridding myself of that other identity of 
mine—Venus Petersen.” Her voice had been ironical 
at first, but now it dropped to a pleading note. 

“Drake, I didn’t choose my former life, it was chosen 
for me. My folks are good, a great deal more rigid in 
their moral standards than you could ever believe-” 

“Really?” he said sardonically. “Was that girl I 
met the other day a Pearson—or a Petersen?” Helga’s 
head drooped and a terrible flush suffused her face. 
When she threw back her head there were tears in her 
eyes. The fight was over. She could never make him 
understand that she had been impulsive, not delib¬ 
erately scheming; his former experience had made him 
too bitter, too cynical. She was only another Leda, 
yet a Leda who had never had a chance to wind her 
fingers around his heart. For him, her bloom was 
gone, had never been, her romantic adventure was a 
sordid vulgarity. He was wondering now if the illusion 
of her beauty only covered a shoddiness like Florence’s. 

She threw out her hands, 



240 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“You are ruthless, Drake,” she said quietly. “How 
confidently you tear away all the little prides, all the 
little illusions of—other people.” She halted suddenly 
in the very words. Suddenly, as though she were again 
in the commonplace little parlor in New York she 
heard her own, careless, final words to her family. As 
though she were viewing a different person she saw 
that former self of hers staring with an irritable, un¬ 
comprehending patience at her mother’s contorted face. 
She heard the faltering tones of her father’s voice as he 
made his absurd farewells. Good God! Could they 
have been hurt—like this? Never—never! She 
wouldn’t believe it! Her father—what had she done 
to her father? Suddenly and with an overwhelming 
physical yearning she longed to lay her head against 
the ample strength of her mother’s bosom—that queer 
Italian mother who had always seemed so aloof from 
her own world. Had that mother wanted things, 
wanted people as violently as she now did, and had 
she had to bear stoically pains and humiliations like 
this? 

The room, the man before her seemed to flow away 
into an empty nothingness that held only a new resolve. 
There was but one thing, one duty that she had. 
There was but one beauty, one dignity that she could 
recapture—and all of these things must be sought— 
at home. 

She turned toward the door, vague eyes, misty with 
the stunning new realization, scarcely seeing her hus¬ 
band. 

“Where are you going?” he said sharply. She 
halted and frowned a little. She wanted to think, to 
think as she had never tried to before, she wanted 
to study and humbly counsel with this new Helga. 
The sooner she left this man, the sooner this dull pain 


DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


241 


in her side would cease to cloud her thoughts. Her 
voice was almost irritable. 

“I must write to my family,” she said slowly, “be¬ 
cause I am going home tomorrow.” With these words 
her heart seemed to swell. There was a tenderness in 
her, something vital that seemed to come into its own. 
She spread her arms. “Oh, Drake—I shall be glad to 
see my own—folks.” He caught her hands in a grip 
that hurt, and shook her a little, as one would a dream¬ 
ing child. 

“What do you mean?” he said roughly. “You’re 
going to do no such thing. Do you realize that you 
are—Mrs. Drake Gellert, and that you can’t cast off 
this identity as lightly as you did your other?” 

She seemed scarcely to hear his words, and she 
brought her mind to them with an effort. 

“But I must, Drake,” she said simply, “after what 
you have said—and your words have made me realize 
there is nothing else for me to do.” 

“I have said too much,” he said abruptly. Her eyes 
widened but there was no reproach in them. 

“Does it matter? You showed me the way, anyway, 
and for that I thank you, and for all I have learned— 
here—and for the days I have been happy.” 

“Don’t talk like that,” he forced her eyes to meet 
his, by gripping her shoulders. “You’re not going, 
you’re going to—stay here.” Now she had focussed 
her mind again upon him, but her eyes were steady, 
with a new, unchanging light. 

“My duty is with the people who love me, and whom 
I can do something for,” she said simply. 

“What can you do for them?” roughly. She an¬ 
swered him eagerly as though glad to have his attention 
diverted even an instant from the issue between them. 

“You know what I am—have been, Drake. I do, 


242 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


well, stunts. Florence, my sister whom you met/’ she 
spoke with no change in her tone, “signed a contract 
to do a tight-rope act for an advertising stunt. It— 
why, it’s sometime next week, I think! But she hasn’t 
as strong nerves as I—and now she’s afraid to go 
through with it. They want me to take her place. 
That’s more in my line than hers, anyway.” 

“Absolutely out of the question. Let her break the 
contract!” 

“You break contracts easily then?” her voice was 
limpid. 

“It’s not your contract.” 

“It’s my family’s, my sister’s. If Miles contracted 
to do something which he could not fulfill, and which 
was within your power to do for him, wouldn’t you?” 
The man shrugged his shoulders irritably. 

“That’s different. The family honor-” 

“My family perhaps has an honor, too.” Her tones 
were cold. He looked at her helplessly. 

“Oh, come now, Helga. Be practical. I don’t want 
to say more than I have said, l^t you’re sensible. You 
know very well that the honor of my family is a 
rather more vital thing than-” he floundered piti¬ 

fully. 

“In other words, you wish me to prove to you that 
all your accusations about me, my family, our honor, 
are all quite correct. Is that it? Let me go. I am 
going to write, now, telling Florence I will take her 
place.” The man looked at her and read the quiet 
decision in her eyes. 

“You can’t, Helga,” he stammered. “You—I have 
a right—you belong to me, now-” 

“Do I?” with bitter emphasis. “I thought you were 
just attempting to make me realize quite the opposite 
—that I was an offense to your eyes, a blot on your 





DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


243 


pure escutcheon—that hereafter I should be content 
to crawl before you. Bah!” Her eyes were blazing 
now, and she kept her voice down with an effort. 

For a moment they stood there, hostile eyes strug¬ 
gling in silence. Then suddenly the girl saw him step 
forward, felt his arms, possessive, almost cruel, around 
her, and his lips crushed again and again to her hair. 

“You know I love you,” he said hoarsely. “Why 
shouldn’t I tell you now? Why, my dear, do you think 
for an instant that you are going to—leave me?” His 
lips sought her mouth. 

The girl’s body was a torch of flame. There were no 
more words, no more thoughts in the world now, there 
were only emotions. It was enough to lie limply in his 
arms, wondering that she could have ever cared, ever 
worried, ever been wrought to tears by other things. 
This—this was her kingdom and she had entered it. 

He kissed her again, more tenderly and then re¬ 
leased her, with a shy, half-triumphant laugh. 

“Are you going to go—now?” he asked and his voice 
shook a little boyishly. The girl raised a hand dazedly 
and laid it on his breast. The scarlet lips were parted 
in a slow, pleading little smile. 

“You really want—me?” she asked timidly, “after 
—after all you said?” The man flushed a deep red, 
and took her again in his arms. 

“I—I am a snob, I guess,” he said in a low voice, 
“and I’m sorry I said those ugly things. I didn’t 
mean them—all,” he added under his breath. She 
twisted a little in his arms and looked up at him. 

“Then you’re not ashamed—of me? People can’t 
love other people and be ashamed of them, can they?” 
she asked with some dignity. He laughed down at 
her. 

“Of course they can’t—and of course I’m burstingly 


244 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


proud of you, you queer little creature,” he magnifi¬ 
cently and unconsciously added the epithet. 

‘Tm not very—little,” Helga confessed demurely. 

“You’re perfect.” 

There was a moment’s silence and then the man 
drew her to the low divan before the fire, and pulled 
her down beside him. 

“Something’s still bothering you, dear heart.” Helga 
looked up at him, looked into the face whose own pas¬ 
sionate lines and angles the firelight was painting into 
the very hue of ardency. Her hand quivered a little 
as it lay in his. Then her glance fell and from her 
chin to the white temples her skin was invaded by a 
slow, hesitant blush that deepened into a hot rose over 
the cheek bones. 

“Drake,” she began, and her voice was low, “you— 
you haven’t given in to me the way—the way you 
swore you never would—that time before we were 
married? And—it isn’t that you just—want me as— 
you did that night at camp?” 

His arms went about her shoulders fiercely and his 
reply was smothered in the soft curve of her neck. 

“Dear! No—it isn’t just that—though it’s that too, 
you know it—why should I deny it—to my wife? You 
tormented me from the first time I ever saw you—you 
would torment any man with blood in his veins. At 
least give me credit, Helga, that—except for once—I 
kept the bargain. Those nights on the sun-porch— 
how many of them do you suppose I slept soundly? 
Here, too—after they cut that damn door from my 
room to yours—God, how I’ve hated the mockery of 
that door!” 

The girl bloomed under his words but her flush 
deepened painfully and she could not meet his eyes 
though he had raised his head and was attempting 


DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


245 


to compel her glance. His voice softened, became 
more tender though it did not lose its triumphant 
note. 

“But beside that, dearest—I love you in every other 
wonderful way that it’s possible to love—I want to 
take care of you, to protect you—to be proud of you— 
to be friends with you.” Helga’s eyes met his now 
and they engaged in the eternal and vain attempt to 
tear away the impenetrable veil that isolates every 
human soul. Flesh might leap exultantly at the touch 
of other flesh, heart might beat against heart, yet all 
through life and even to the last dragging moments of 
the aged breath, each soul would painfully and unwill¬ 
ingly guard some mystic secret of its own. And in this 
second of their closest alliance both faces were half- 
sad with this subconscious knowledge. Drake was the 
first to impotently rebel against irrevocable dictum. 

“I—I want to have every bit of you,” he stammered 
inarticulately. “I want to know what you are thinking 
—and feeling. It will take you a lifetime, Helga, to 
make up to me for these last few months when I’ve 
lived in a hell of uncertainty—and jealousy.” 

“Jealousy?” The girl’s query was wondering. “But 
you haven’t really been — in love with me — until 
lately.” The man gave a short laugh. 

“In love with you? If you’d been plainer, less 
attractive, I should have known more surely whether 
I was in love with you, and when I was first in love 
with you. I’m not completely unsophisticated—but 
I’d been fooled once by confusing love and—physical 
infatuation, and I was afraid of getting hurt again. 
That night at camp, I thought I knew it was the lat¬ 
ter. Since then, I have known it was both. I know 
now, adorable, that no matter what you looked like, 
I would still be mad about you.” So he lied uncon- 


246 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


sciously as men have always fatuously lied, and as 
women have always fatuously believed them. And 
indeed the world would be a chaotic affair if youth 
didn’t always face life with that gay paper shield. 
Sometimes that shield splits and tears with the first 
encounter with reality. Sometimes its inadequacy is 
discovered at once and the young combatant arro¬ 
gantly takes the road without it. But blessed are the 
lovers who hold their faith in it to the end, for to 
them is sometimes vouchsafed the miracle, that the 
shield has been transmuted into shining steel. 

Helga looked at him with parted lips and her eyes 
seemed almost black. Before she had merely had 
glimpses of that former Drake, but now he was indeed 
living again. Excitement had brought a boyish stain 
of color to his cheeks, passion had softened the lines of 
his face, tenderness had brought a new maturity and 
decisiveness to his mouth. But what she treasured 
most of all was the aura of power that seemed to sur¬ 
round him, a physical power that expressed itself in 
the broad shoulders, the length of him and the muscu¬ 
lar, tapering fingers; a mental power and strength that 
made her realize gladly that what he once had been, 
that he was now—and would be increasingly under the 
serene urge of her love. 

With this realization came a tiny fear, that she sa¬ 
vored almost pleasantly. She would always be the 
weaker, even physically. Always, no matter what her 
small rebellions, he would force her back to his arms 
again—passionately, perhaps, but inexorably. She had 
roused the real Drake at last, and his love was a tem¬ 
pered steel that would protect her—or impale her 
heart. 

A quick movement on his part awoke her from 
this half-terrifying, half-exultant speculation. 


DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


247 


“It’s late,” and his voice was husky, “and I do not 
want to talk—to think of any thing or any one but 
you. But you must write that letter to your family— 
first.” 

“What letter?” The girl was bewildered. 

“You must tell your family,” he said, and his voice 
was kind but steady, “that you are sorry but you posi¬ 
tively cannot consent to take your sister’s place. And 
tell them, too, that you and I start for Buenos Aires as 
soon as we can get off.” 

“Oh, Drake! Business?” The girl’s eyes were 
shining. 

“And tell them,” he went on with increasing assur¬ 
ance, “that your life is no longer theirs. That they 
will see you only occasionally. No, wait, Helga, it’s 
just what you’ve been trying to do, isn’t it? Just what 
you intended?” 

“Oh, Drake, I never told them that. It would kill 
them,” the girl wailed. They were in her room now, 
and he drew her down beside him on the couch. He 
spoke quietly, reasonably, as though to a self-willed 
child. 

“My dear, I’ve confessed I’m a snob. So are you, 
or you’d never have left them. I can’t have this sort of 
thing coming up all the time in the future, worrying 
you half to death. How do you know but what your 
sister will be after you again some time? Either you 
want them, or you don’t. You’ve got to cut the Gor¬ 
dian knot. Now is the time to do it. How many are 
there in your family, anyway?” 

Helga twisted her hands. Each word she uttered 
seemed to be a stone crushing something—something 
new and rare which she had glimpsed a little while 
ago—a little while ago, but such an eternity of more 
glorious things had happened since. 


248 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“My father and mother,” she enunciated in meas¬ 
ured tones, “my brother Ed, my Aunt Tina—and 
Florence.” 

“Well, there you are,” he said comfortably. “A 
big family without you. And they haven’t seen much 
of you, anyway. Now, dear, will you take my advice— 
and write?” She looked at him miserably, some of the 
shining joy in her eyes fled. 

“Must I?” 

“I think you had better.” He was inexorable. Then 
he added unfortunately, “I only want you , dearest.” 
She whitened under that remark. He regretted it, but 
would not retract. So for a moment they seemed hos¬ 
tile strangers again. They were only safe in each 
others’ arms, pushing away these other considerations. 

“I’ll write,” she said lifelessly and arose. 

In an instant, he was solicitously pulling out her 
chair and rummaging in the desk drawers and pigeon 
holes for her stationery and ink. Helga sat with her 
elbows on the mahogany, her hands pressed to her 
eyes. For several minutes, in her bewildered confu¬ 
sion of emotions, she did not note the dead silence. 
Then she became aware that for some time Drake had 
not moved. She glanced up and then stiffened. 

He was standing with a letter in his hand, the letter 
which she had taken from the garret. His eyes were 
on the lines of the superscription, but his gaze was 
fixed, unseeing. She waited, waited for him to ques¬ 
tion her. Then she noted with terror the stiff fixity 
of his features. He raised his eyes and then looked 
down into hers with almost the stare that she had 
seen him give to Miles. She opened her lips, and then 
suddenly her new dignity claimed her. Was life with 
him to be a continual apology, humility before some 
accusation of his? He knew her, enough to love her. 


DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


249 


He knew at least her honesty. Was he going to believe 
that she had vulgarly taken this letter, a letter from 
him to his wife, to Leda—that she had been inquisitive, 
morbid, prying? Her heart cried out to him silently, 
begged him to accord her a respect that would cement 
her love for him. She would not speak. He must 
show her that he not only loved her, but honored her. 
She waited. 

At last he moved, looked down into her immobile 
face with an expression as noncommittal. He laid the 
letter carelessly to one side. 

“It is late,” he said courteously, “and you are tired. 
Write your letter—and then hop into bed.” 

“Yes, Drake,” she said without stirring. He leaned 
down and drew her into his arms. For a moment they 
clung together as though by kisses they could ravish 
each others’ minds. There was a futile, desperate 
struggle of unspoken questions between them. Then 
he released her abruptly and backed away. 

“Good-night, Helga.” 

She took a step toward him. 

“You are going—now?” Her eyes held him. Please, 
Drake say it now—I am helping you. Surely you can 
see the warning in my eyes? If you go now, if you 
leave me like this, what am I to believe? What have I 
to hold to? Was it all lies—everything you said in 
there so few minutes ago? It seemed that she must be 
shouting the questions, instead of holding them, in dim 
whispers, in her heart. 

He hesitated a moment and then, with a reckless 
laugh, closed the door and stood there with his back 
to it. His eyes were narrowed. 

“You are asking me to stay?” She faltered an 
instant. Was she being faced with her first compro¬ 
mise? Was it a vain pride that was stirring angrily in 


250 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


her blood, or was it a true self-respect that now, above 
all other times, she must keep? She took a step toward 
him and laid her hand on his breast, searching his 
eyes. His look was devouring, passionate—there was 
a suggestion of desperate surrender in it—yet she 
missed the direct, comprehending tenderness that had 
so permeated it an hour past. Its trustfulness had fled. 
She drew back and instantly he crushed her to him. 

“You are asking me to stay?” he repeated hurriedly. 
“I will, Helga—I will.” She was silent. Some cold 
current of disillusionment had quieted her pulse, so 
that though she was quiescent in his arms, rapture died 
a struggling death in her heart. And his voice had 
held the husky hunger of a man who reconciles himself 
to—the lesser desire, that would drug himself on wine 
when the bread is withdrawn. 

“I am not asking you to stay,” she replied quietly, 
“in fact, I think you had better go.” He bit his lip. 
Her hands went to her breast. For a fearful instant 
she read in his knotted brows and in the surging flame 
of his eyes the determination to stay, whether or no 
she wished it. If he stayed now it would mean the 
demolition of the whole structure—not only a betrayal 
of her—but of himself. 

Then she drew a deep breath as he stepped back. 
With a barely perceptible shrug of the shoulders he 
went through the door to his own room and closed it 
quietly behind him. 

Helga pulled a sheet of paper toward her and for a 
few minutes scribbled rapidly, hardly aware of the 
phrases she used. At last she pushed the envelope 
aside and rose wearily, glancing at her clock. It was 
very late, or very early. She moved silently to Drake’s 
door and leaned against it. There was no sound from 
the room except the cracking and crumbling of logs on 


DRAKE TAKES A HAND 


251 


the hearth. Had everything been said? Why had he 
not asked the careless question, made the simple com¬ 
ment that would have shown her that he believed in 
her integrity? Anger stormed through her and then 
the enervating weakness of passion. If they could only 
be in each other’s arms forever and ever—but they 
could not be. And yet—was that to be their only 
refuge, the only remedy for their misunderstandings? 
She asked a question as new to her, as bewildering, as 
it is ancient to the world. 

If she could only make Drake understand, be tol¬ 
erant of her family as she was now tolerant—but she 
never could. How could she expect that he, from such 
an alien world, could ever reach that understanding 
which had come so slowly to her? Which had come 
finally with a beauty, a pulsing relief that had instantly 
been shrivelled in a greater passion. 

She turned out the lights, and heard the clocks 
strike ponderously through the darkness of the night. 
She dared not dwell on her letter to her family, she 
dared not dwell on the aborted scene between her and 
Drake. All that was left to her was to lie there in 
the early hours of the morning, and wonder whether 
the day would bring new counsel—and a better. 


XVI 

The Letter 



ELGA had hardly opened heavy, unrested 
eyes the next morning when the telephone 
bell rang. She lifted herself on one elbow, 
and drew the instrument toward her. 
Frankie’s voice came pert and gay over 


the wire. 

“It’s a glorious warm day, old dear, and they won’t 
last long. How about a swim in about an hour?” 

As she listened, Helga found her mind in full grasp 
of the events of the night before. What was going to 
be Drake’s attitude toward her now, hers toward him? 
She must have more time to think. Hastily she 
accepted Frankie’s invitation and hung up the re¬ 
ceiver. Then she lay there in bed for a moment, idly 
watching the flicker of sunlight on the ceiling. It was 
nearly nine, and she hoped that Miles and Drake would 
both be gone when she went downstairs. 

When she rose, she made a leisurely toilet, to insure 
this possibility. But years of brisk, frenzied dressing 
had made it almost impossible for her to kill time in 
this way, and it was still only nine-thirty when she 
slipped her arms through the sleeveless cape that cov¬ 
ered her bathing suit. She thrust her bathing cap into 
her pocket, and opening the door, listened for a mo¬ 
ment to see if the coast was clear. 

Then she ran downstairs and entered the breakfast 
room. 

It was empty, except for Morton, who at sight of her 
left the room to bring in fresh coffee. Her spirits rose. 
The sunlight, drifting through the green filter of the 
252 













THE LETTER 


253 


vines, was like a heady draught of wine. The world 
lay as still and somnolent under the September air, as 
though the gardens still dreamed of summer. Helga 
pushed her fruit aside and idly picked up the paper. 
It held little of interest until she turned to the fourth 
page. There her eyes fell, and riveted on a short para¬ 
graph, a paragraph which in the New York papers was 
undoubtedly more featured. 

It announced briefly that much interest was felt in 
the opening of the New Variety Theater on the 
night of September 14. Messrs. Rosenberg & Hahn 
were trying an original advertisement for the first 
night. One of the Five Daring Petersens, a girl, was 
to tightrope on a wire suspended between the old 
theater and the new, which were side by side. This 
was the first time such a feat had been attempted at 
night. Searchlights were to illumine the scene for the 
street crowds, which, it was estimated, would be enor¬ 
mous. The following day, work would be started on 
the razing of the old building, which had long been a 
menace and which had recently been condemned. 

Helga flung the paper aside and for a moment sat 
there with corrugated brows. So Florence had not 
broken the contract yet. What was she waiting for? 

Did they hope that at the last moment she-? The 

girl shrugged. The letter destroying their last hope 
was lying on her desk upstairs, waiting to be mailed. 
It must go as soon as she returned from the swim. 
She leaned forward a little, her eyes narrowed. There 
was a pencil mark of the faintest drawn vertically 
along the paragraph. Either Miles or—Drake must 
have seen it then. She looked up at Morton as he 
entered. 

“Have both the men left, Morton?” she asked care¬ 
lessly. 


254 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Only Mr. Drake, ma’am,” Morton answered, pour¬ 
ing her coffee. “Mr. Gellert hasn’t come down yet. 
Mr. Drake said he would be home for lunch.” 

Helga sighed. After all, what difference did it 
make now that Drake had seen the clipping? Yet her 
delight in the morning had vanished. She felt a dull 
throbbing in her temples, and wondered at it, half- 
amused. Was this what a headache was? She had 
never had one before. She turned as Frankie ran up 
the steps, and nodded at her. 

“Good girl!” the latter exclaimed. “I see you’re 
all set. I left Robert snoozing still in bed, lazy old 
thing—but we were up late last night and he tears 
off hours of slumber as though they were coupons and 
he a millionaire! Come on.” 

Helga rose, though she had hardly touched her cof¬ 
fee. Somehow she had lost her appetite. She climbed 
into Frankie’s low car with a sigh of relief, pulled off 
her soft crushed hat, and closing her eyes let the wind 
blow through her hair. There was a short silence. 
Then Frankie spoke, perturbed as Helga had never 
seen her perturbed. 

“I’m terribly sorry about what Bob did last night,” 
she murmured. “It was inexcusable. I—I suppose 
that from the way Drake took it, he has never been 
particularly pleased about—your former life?” 

“He didn’t know about it—until last night,” Helga 
answered her coolly. Frankie turned upon her a 
stricken gaze. 

“No! Oh, my Lord, Helga, I am sorry. But, poor 
Bob, he really was quite innocent—he didn’t dream—” 

“How could he?” quietly. “But don’t worry, 
Frankie, it had to come out sometime, and I’m not— 
ashamed.” 

“No, of course you’re not. But didn’t even Miles 


THE LETTER 


255 


or Uncle-?” The girl floundered a little in an un¬ 

characteristic way, and then with a glance at Helga’s 
noncommittal face, she allowed her words to drift into 
silence, though her eyes were still wide. 

Helga knew that Frankie was not shocked, was only 
intensely interested, but she preserved a complete 
silence. She could not talk about this to the girl, not 
until she and Drake had reached some sort of under¬ 
standing that was not based solely on their passion 
for each other. At last she spoke, but her words 
changed the subject and Frankie meekly followed her 
lead. For once, Helga felt with a little amused tri¬ 
umph, Frankie was out of her depth, was at a loss. 

Helga deliberately prolonged their usual time at the 
lake. It was deserted at this time of day, yet at its 
loveliest, and she was determined to swim, to lie on 
the warm sand, to spread her damp hair to the cooling 
wind, until the last vestige of her headache was gone. 
Frankie, though she tired sooner than Helga, was con¬ 
tent to wait for her, smoking cigarette after cigarette 
in the casual way she had that seemed to add no em¬ 
phasis to the act. At last, however, Helga sat up and 
brushed the sand from her suit. Then she ran her 
fingers through the loosened strands of her hair. It 
no longer clung to her suit but sprang from her touch 
in licking curls of amber fire. 

“It’s dry now/’ she commented, “and my headache 
is gone. It must be nearly noon. Ready to go?” 
Frankie nodded. She had been ready for nearly an 
hour, but she made no comment on the fact. Helga 
looked at her gratefully. After all, Frankie was a com¬ 
forting sort, especially when one had her alone. With 
an impulsive movement she held out her hand and 
swung Frankie to her feet with as much ease as though 
she had been lifting a wrap. 



256 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Frankie,” she said straightforwardly, “sometime 
I’ll tell you all about—me. But I haven’t—the right, 
now.” 

“That’s all right, old dear,” Frankie nodded awk¬ 
wardly, but with good humor, as they trudged up the 
hill. But there was a silence now between them that 
was as understanding and as inarticulate as that be¬ 
tween two adolescent boys. There was a good deal 
that was boyish in the make-up of both of them. 

It was noon when Helga returned to the house, after 
leaving Frankie. No one was in the hall and she did 
not pause on her way upstairs. But as she turned the 
curve in the staircase, she mounted more slowly. 
Miles was standing almost outside his door. Some¬ 
thing determined, ugly, in his look startled her. His 
eyes held a flare of the pupils that gave him a curi¬ 
ously different air from his usual collected manner. 
As she approached him, the girl knew that he had 
been waiting for her. His voice was low, almost a 
whisper. 

“What did Drake have to say last night?” he de¬ 
manded rather than asked. Helga was tempted to an 
indignant retort, but she repressed it. After all, con¬ 
sidering the situation which had existed, and which 
Miles himself had arranged, his past actions had not 
been as wholly inexcusable or as caddish as they might 
have been under different circumstances. How was he 
to know that in the hours of the night the whole situa¬ 
tion had changed, and that he now had no faintest 
right to honorably importune her? So she spoke qui¬ 
etly, but with her voice on its usual level, as though to 
discourage in him any idea that they cherished some 
secret between them that excluded Drake. 

“It’s all right, Miles. Drake and I came to an 
—understanding.” She hesitated to tell him more, 


THE LETTER 


257 


just as she had hesitated with Frankie, for her last 
sight of Drake had not been reassuring. But the man’s 
face whitened. 

“You mean—he wasn’t angry?” 

“He isn’t any longer, Miles.” 

He seized her arms roughly, so that the snap which 
held her cape, released, and the wrap fell to the 
ground. She stood there before him, her hair loosened, 
her body revealed in the scant costume. 

“Of course he would pretend not to be angry,” he 
said with an ugly laugh, “in order to have—you. You 
little fool! He almost hated Leda at times—I know 
it—yet she held him, or he held her—because of his 
physical infatuation.” Helga did not attempt to 
struggle in his grasp. 

“According to your own words, that is your feeling 
for me,” she said calmly. “Drake at least loves me— 
loves all of me. To you, I’m just a pretty—dumb¬ 
bell. Let me go, instantly, Miles.” 

The man wound his arms about her, deceived by her 
lax body. He attempted to reach her lips. 

“How many games are you trying to play, my lady?” 
he asked, and then suddenly looked up, horror in his 
eyes. Drake’s door had opened and now he stood sur¬ 
veying them with a gaze that was as hard as agate, a 
stare that was curiously filmed. Miles had released 
the girl and now she stepped back, rubbing her shoul¬ 
ders vaguely, where red finger marks streaked the 
ivory flesh. She looked dumbly at Drake, waiting for 
this man who had taken her, to draw her away now, 
and comfort her. But his eyes, which had only swept 
her, remained fixed on Miles. They darkened, he 
frowned a little as though with an intense effort at 
concentration, then suddenly his face was contorted. 
He took a step forward. 


258 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“I remember now Miles/’ he said with difficulty. 
“I remember everything!” The older man’s frame 
quivered with a perceptible shudder. 

“What do you remember, Drake?” Drake’s fists 
were clenched. 

“I remember that when I was following—Leda in 
the car, before she was killed —you were in the car, too. 
She was driving—and you had your arms about her. 
That was when something went—something snapped 
—here!” He tapped his forehead. Helga shrank to 
the wall, watching them with terrified eyes. Miles 
straightened as though throwing a burden from his 
shoulders. With the direct accusation, he seemed 
somehow to have become himself again, the self Helga 
had first known. 

“Well, Drake, it seems we have something to thrash 
out. May I come in your room? We had better 
excuse Helga from a scene that is likely to be—pain¬ 
ful.” Drake turned to the girl and his look flicked 
across her like a contemptuous lash. 

“She seems to be rather involved,” he sneered. 
“Apparently I am a man to whom no woman can be— 
faithful.” He spat the words out. Helga started 
forward. 

“Drake, don’t talk like that,” she begged him. 
“Don’t forget—last night-” 

“I have not forgotten.” Then with a cold formality 
he opened the door of her room and bowed them 
inside. 

“William is in his room,” he said sardonically. 
“Perhaps we had better not take him into our confi¬ 
dence.” But as he closed the door behind him, he 
seemed to have forgotten his last words. He took off 
his coat, and rolled up his sleeves. Then he advanced 
upon Miles. 


THE LETTER 


259 


“And, now, damn you, I’m going to give you the 
hiding you deserve,” he began. Helga rushed for¬ 
ward with an inarticulate cry. 

“Drake! You can’t!” she murmured clutching his 
arm. “Think—think what you are doing—maybe 
Miles can explain.” Miles had folded his arms and 
was still standing immobile. 

“Tell your lie, then,” Drake said contemptuously. 
“Tell me that my eyesight, my memory is wrong. 
Tell me that I have not seen both Leda—and Helga in 
your arms.” 

“I will tell you no such thing,” Miles said quietly. 
“You were right. As far as Helga went, she was un¬ 
responsive—but please remember that she was only 
nominally your wife, that only last night you insulted 
her in front of myself and the Reynoldses-” 

He had touched Drake there. The latter relaxed 
his grim attitude for a moment. Then he raised his 
eyes. 

“Never mind now about—Helga,” he said with de¬ 
liberate brutality. “We can settle that later. You 
shall tell me the whole story now about you—and 
Leda. Oh, I sensed, I suspected a good many things. 
I remember now that you tried to prevent me from 
marrying her. Not content with that, you—you tried 
to take her from me when I was in France, when she 
was defenceless under your care. Oh, God damn 
you!” Miles’ eyes narrowed but he controlled his 
voice. 

“Steady there. Don’t imagine that I’m going to step 
without protest into the role of the complete villain. 
One of your facts is true, the other is a—a lie. I did 

try to prevent you from marrying her-” 

“Ah!” 

“—because,” the other man went on steadily, “she 




260 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


was—she belonged to me—at the time you met her!” 
With an inarticulate oath Drake sprang across the 
room, but Helga was in front of Miles. 

“No, Drake, no,” she said, trying to hold his eyes. 
“Let everything be said—first.” Miles did not seem 
to have moved. 

“She belonged to me,” he repeated, “but when she 
met you, she saw a young fool with as much money as 
I, but one who was willing to marry her. I would have 
told you before—if I had dreamed you would rush to 
the registrar’s office after a week’s acquaintance, and 
get married! Then what was I to do—tell you, then?” 
There was a ring of absolute sincerity, bitter regret in 
his voice that the other two could not mistake; it 
reached even Drake through his fog of passion. He 
groaned heavily and stumbled toward the couch where 
he sat down, his face in his hands. There came a 
knock at the door. Helga went swiftly forward and 
opened it to Morton, opened it only slightly. 

“Lunch is served, ma’am,” he said quietly. 

“Tell them to hold it, Morton,” she answered with 
an attempt at calm. This was the farcical edge of the 
tragedy, the bitterest necessity—that everyday affairs 
had to be met as composedly as though the whole 
clockwork of one’s life had not stopped. Then she 
closed the door in his mildly surprised face, and turned 
back. In that brief moment of interruption, Drake’s 
control had returned. He looked up. 

“I’m inclined to believe you, Miles,” he began, but 
the latter raised his hand. 

“Believe me no worse than you must,” he half 
pleaded. “Remember the months that Leda and I 
spent here—when you had gone over—but believe me 
when I tell you that my interest in her was dead before 
you ever met her-” Drake shrugged. 


THE LETTER 


261 


“And her interest in you?” he smiled with a twisted 
mouth. Miles’ eyes were averted. 

“Perhaps if I had not been here—after you came 
back, perhaps if she had not had me to run to with 
her little complaints about you—then perhaps your 
life would have been—less complicated,” he admitted. 
“You know—you knew Leda—even though you closed 
your eyes to some of her faults. There was no man 
living in her propinquity whom she would leave alone 
—and you know that, too.” 

Drake stood up and brushed his hands together as 
though he were removing the last taint of this dead 
business. 

“And now,” he said dryly, “which am I to under¬ 
stand Helga favors—which of us? It is rather obvious 
that the scene I just saw in the hall cannot have been 
the first. It is obvious even if I weren’t aware that 
letters have passed between you—that you were not 
content with seeing each other day by day. I presume 
Miles was also a prior acquaintance of yours, Helga?” 
he queried with an aged, bitter look. 

The girl had stood in silence during the whole of this 
extraordinary conversation. Her heart was no longer 
a sentient organ—it was dead as a stone within her 
breast. So last night meant nothing—nothing. One 
could love—men could love—without trust, without 
respect. She had not had time yet to realize the 
full meaning of what she had heard Miles confess, but 
as though she had felt it through her emotions, a 
deadly sickness now enervated her limbs, a nausea that 
for the moment made even Drake seem unclean to her. 
Through this mist she heard Miles’ rapid reply. 

“Letters?” There was real amazement in his voice. 
“I have never written to Helga, nor she to me. I’ve 
seen no more than her signature-” 



262 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“That is true, Drake/’ Helga said dully. Her hus¬ 
band gave a short laugh, strode to the girl’s desk and 
flung it open. He returned to them with a letter in his 
hand, and almost threw it in the girl’s face. She barely 
caught it before it fluttered to the ground. 

“Are you telling me that isn’t your—present name, 
and that that isn’t Miles’ handwriting?” he demanded. 
Miles stepped forward, a queer, puzzled look on his 
face. He took the letter. 

“That is my handwriting,” he said at last delib¬ 
erately, “but it is a letter to—Leda.” The obviousness 
of this struck the other man and for a moment he fal¬ 
tered. 

“Then how-?” Helga intervened. 

“Oh, let me tell you—please-” and in a few swift 

words she explained how she had come by the letter 
and why it had remained in her possession. But with 
that explanation her last vestige of trust in Drake had 
fled. He had not believed in her, he had thought a 
thing uglier than she had even dreamed. His love was 
a blind, demanding passion that rested on unstable 
sands. She turned away and seated herself indif¬ 
ferently by the window as Miles drew the letter from 
its envelope. 

“If you will permit me,” he said ironically, “I will 
read this aloud. So much has been said that a little 
more can do no damage.” He cleared his throat and 
began, reading without pause, and without seeming to 
note the girl’s arrested attention or the man’s low 
exclamation: 

“My dear Leda: 

“I was frightfully sorry to hear your news. It came 
with the utmost surprise to me. The house has seemed 
very empty these few months without you and all the 




THE LETTER 


263 


gayety that always surrounded you. But I consoled my¬ 
self by thinking that you were enjoying a taste of the old 
life, the glare of the footlights—not to mention the novelty 
of a uniformed audience. So you had a baby—and you 
have lost it. I am sorry, so very sorry, my dear. You told 
me little, so little that I hesitate to ask for details, lest it 
should hurt you. But you know the questions that are in 
my mind, if you care to answer them. Yes, my dear, your 
baby was a Gellert, poor little chap, and most certainly his 
boot shall hang in the garret with the others. Don’t think 
of me entirely as a man without any feelings but a cold 
pride. 

“Come back to us soon. The house is dismal without 
either you or Drake. But the newspapers are encouraging 
and perhaps we shall have both of you with us soon. The 
Doctor and Frankie both send their best regards. 

“As always, 

“Miles.” 

Helga hardly breathed. So this was the story 
behind the metal slipper and baby’s bootee up there in 
the attic? But Drake stepped forward and took the 
letter in trembling hands. Then he looked directly 
into Miles’ eyes. 

“Was that—boy—mine?” he asked. The older man 
lifted his brows, but his eyes softened. 

“How should I know? She never answered my 
questions. The child was buried there in California. 
No one here has ever known about it, though I some¬ 
times think the Doctor suspected. And now, Drake,” 
he added, “go down to lunch. This is enough. Later 
you may give me the thrashing which no doubt—” his 
eyes wandered to Helga, “I richly deserve. But I 
want to warn you. If you do not choose to take your 
chance now with her—a chance which you have re¬ 
peatedly and consistently thrown away, I shall do 
my best to persuade her that she can find—happiness 


264 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


—with me. No—wait. She has known ever since we 
entered this room that you have distrusted her, have 
almost hated her. It needed material proof to bring 
you to any realization that you might be wrong. And 
your action last night! I knew the truth long before 
you did—and it made no difference in my feeling.” 
He faltered a little as he caught the girl’s cool smile, 
then he turned to her. “Is that not true, Helga?” 

She rose and came forward with the superb feline 
walk with which she had entered their lives. Her 
cheeks were white save for a smouldering crescent of 
fire under the dark eyes. She flung out her arms in 
an unconsciously theatrical gesture, as though in the 
last few minutes she had become, not Helga Gellert, 
but—Venus Petersen. Even her voice seemed to have 
a throaty softness which had lately been less notice¬ 
able. For a moment her eyes held theirs in a narrowed 
gaze. Then she spoke. 

“What does it matter now what is true about either 
of you?” she said contemptuously. “Do you suppose 
that this—this aristocratic family, this exclusive, 
highly cultured Gellert family that has taken genera¬ 
tions to produce—you two, can interest me in any 
way?” She clasped her hands behind her and her 
nostrils dilated. “Do you suppose,” she said with 
cruel emphasis, “that my family would consent to my 
living in a home where such a skeleton as this is apt to 
rattle at any moment? You—” she turned upon Miles 
swiftly, “you dare to think that you can acquire me— 
that it is nothing to me to be the successor of a woman 
—who doesn’t even know the father of her child!” 
She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Ah, you wince at my—vulgarity. Is the vulgarity 
in the saying? There is no member of my family— 
and I can count back my grandfathers twelve genera- 


THE LETTER 


265 


tions—who have had this to hide under slurring 
phrases.” 

She flung around on Drake, so suddenly that he put 
out his hand to a chair to steady himself. Her face 
was close to his, so close that the scent of her hair was 
in his nostrils. 

“And you, my husband,” she said steadily, “have 
taught me that the mind can despise while the lips 
kiss. I ami glad—proud, that I have nothing to despise 
but my lips—that I let you betray.” Her mother was 
speaking now, through a mouth that was full and 
Latin in its curves of anger, in words that seemed 
almost to suggest foreign idiom. 

“Go! Go!” she said almost hysterically. “I hate 
you both, and I hate my new name. I shall leave on 

the next train, as I came-” She threw open her 

closet door and gestured, “See—the same old suitcase 
and clothes. And I shall walk down the hill, as I came, 
and I shall know that what I go to, and the people I 
go to, have a notoriety that does not spring from— 
scandal. I have to thank you for one thing, for a new 
pride—a pride that I am Venus Petersen and not Helga 
Gellert!” 

Miles turned and left the room. She scarcely saw 
him go. But Drake came towards her uncertainly, 
humbly, and caught at her hands. 

“Dearest,” he stammered, “dearest, be still. You 
will make yourself sick. This will all come right— 
give me just a few minutes. Let me explain-” 

“Did you give me time to explain?” 

He caught at a straw. 

“But remember—my illness.” He said it shame¬ 
facedly. Her laugh held a mirthless depth. 

“Your illness! You have depended upon it for six 
years or more to excuse your boorishness, your sulks 



266 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


and your rudeness. You’re as well as I am and it 
hardly becomes you-” 

“I will never mention it again,” he interrupted her. 
“I admit having said it just to gain time—your sym¬ 
pathy perhaps. Let that go. Remember—last night 
—how clear everything seemed for us then—for our 
love.” 

She pulled her hands away and looked vaguely over 
his shoulder. 

“It isn’t clear now, Drake,” she said more quietly. 
“Everything’s foggy—except my going back home. I 
saw you first in the mist, didn’t I?—just your smile. 

And now you seem to be fading into it again-” She 

sat down suddenly. He knelt beside her alarmed. 

“Helga, you look as though you were going to faint.” 
She shrugged. 

“I never fainted,” she replied drearily, “but I feel 
sick, really sick,” she added wonderingly. “Please 
go.” 

Reluctantly he rose and edged toward the door. 

“Let me send Sarah,” he pleaded, but she shook her 
head. 

“Just leave me alone.” 

Her eyes were on the door until it closed and then 
she sank in a huddled heap on the couch. She heard 
some one knock, and then came a sound by which she 
realized that a tray had been placed outside her door. 
Finally she rose. But she did not go to the door. 
She flung open her closet again and drew from it her 
suitcase. Then for a few feverish moments she drew 
tumbled garments from her wardrobe and tossed them 
into the case, her hands trembling. Then a bath—and 
her eyes must be bandaged with a cold, wet cloth. 

Half an hour later she was dressed and hatted for 



THE LETTER 


267 


the street, and her clothes were those which she had 
worn six months ago. 

She listened for a moment—the house seemed pro¬ 
foundly still—and then she cautiously opened her 
door, took her suitcase and passed out. 


XVII 

Home Again 


ELGA’S breath caught jerkily as she jumped 
from the taxi and stood for a moment 
irresolutely in the street. The tall build¬ 
ings, battered brownstone most of them, 
crowded the little frame house even more 
than she had recalled. It seemed to push out almost 
upon the sidewalk as though it had once known better 
company, and was making a last pathetic insistence 
upon its identity. It was early evening, scarcely dark, 
but the air was cool and no one lolled upon the wide, 
warped porch. Helga sighed with relief. It would 
have been difficult to get her greetings over had 
they had to be performed for the benefit of curious 
neighbors. 

For the first time in several hours her spirit was 
curiously light as she ran up the steps. It was good 
to be able to picture their surprise, her mother’s proud 
tears, her father’s forgiving bewilderment. Ed, too. 
She realized now how much Ed’s approval meant to 
her. She did not ring, but stealthily tried the door and 
stepped into the linoleumed hall. The faint, stale odor 
of onions scarcely drew her brows together as it had 
of old, and she savored a poignant moment of antici¬ 
pation as she stood with one hand on the heavy bead 
portieres. 

The murmur of voices reached her. They were 
probably all there. In another second she was in the 
room. 

Her mother was seated by the piano, her eyes bent 
268 












HOME AGAIN 


269 


nearsightedly over her mammoth bust in the effort to 
pick out an embroidery stitch. Ed’s stockinged feet 
were on the table and he was absorbed in the paper. 
Aunt Tina perched on the piano bench picking out a 
melody with tough little fingers that had lost their 
suppleness for music. Only her father sat unoccupied, 
his eyes on the window, his pipe unlit, between his 
lips. Florence was absent—it was just as well. 

Her eyes dwelt on them all, in an affection that she 
had never known. How good, how comforting and 
commonplace was this small room, crowded with weird 
plush rockers, and brightly varnished tables. Even 
the huge cabbage leaves on the red carpet, even the 
Nottingham lace curtains spelled something intimate, 
reassuring. This was home, this was her family— 
. something that could never be torn from her, that was 
an integral part of her very flesh—something to laugh 
over, fight for, and endure. 

“Venus!” her mother screamed suddenly, as though 
she had seen an apparition. “Venus—baby!” For the 
girl was across the room like a whirlwind, and her 
young arms were strongly around this mother—this 
strange being past whose barrier of flesh and old-world 
dialect she had just pierced. 

“Mother — mother,” she sobbed, and was not 
ashamed. 

Then she scrambled to her feet and hugged her 
father’s lean, shrivelled shoulders. He was patting 
her and peering at her through his spectacles as 
though he thought he still daydreamed. 

“I was just thinkin’ about you, Venus,” he began 
vaguely, when Ed interrupted. He had come toward 
them with slow, padding steps, and now he held out his 
hand, but there was no smile in his searching look. It 
was wary, questioning—and he put his arm about his 


270 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


mother’s shoulder as he spoke. That gesture hurt the 
girl. It was a gesture of protection—protecting his 
mother from— her. 

“How long are you back for, Venus?” he queried, 
and the girl saw her mother’s face contract as though 
for the first time she realized that her daughter’s re¬ 
turn might be only temporary, only condescendingly 
brief. She answered quickly. She could not bear that 
look as she once had—nor her father’s suddenly col¬ 
lapsed air. She had ravished something from them 
that she yearned to restore, something impalpable, that 
only seemed vital when it was absent. 

“My dears,” she said tenderly to them all, but her 
eyes were proudly on Ed, “I have come back to you— 
for good! I have come back to take Florence’s place 
the fourteenth. After that—why, Ed must find me 
some of my old jobs!” 

There was a dead silence, then her mother spoke, 
firmly. 

“It is good, my dear, that you take Flo’s place—you 
are a good child. But of course, you are married, 
and of course you joke when you say—that you do not 
return to your husband?” The girl drooped. Was 
she doomed to hurt them eternally with the complica¬ 
tions of her first mad venture? There was only one 
thing to do. She would not have this moment marred. 

“Of course I’ll go back, Ma,” she said, “eventually. 
But I’m going to have a good long visit first. My 
husband sends his love to you,” she said inspiration- 
ally, and was rewarded by the pleased flush on her 
mother’s cheeks. But she was conscious that Ed 
eyed her keenly before he spoke. There was a dry¬ 
ness in his voice, but it could not conceal his manifest 
approval of her immediate action. 

“I always figured you was a sport, Venus,” he 


HOME AGAIN 


271 


drawled, “and I couldn’t believe you’d throw us all 
down. You—you’re a good kid.” It was the greatest 
meed of praise she had ever received from this taci¬ 
turn brother of hers and she blinked with pleasure and 
flushed as she had seldom flushed at other compli¬ 
ments. Then she turned and hugged her aunt who was 
hovering near. 

“Oh, it’s good to be back,” she said fervently. “I’ve 
missed you all, every minute,” her prevarication was 
unconscious. “Where is Florence? I saw by the 
papers this morning that she evidently hadn’t broken 
her contract yet, so I must be just in time. You’ll 
have to help me get into practice again, Ed,” she rat¬ 
tled on happily, and then was suddenly conscious of 
the silence. “Where is Florence?” she asked again 
slowly, sensing something unusual in the air. 

Ed answered her. 

“Your sister Florence,” he said calmly, “went and 
eloped with some young feller she met at the Island. 
She kindly left us a note sayin’ that they’d beat it out 
to the Coast. Sort of left us holdin’ the bag, didn’t 
she?” 

Helga’s eyes flashed. 

“How could she?” Then she caught Aunt Tina’s 
eye and flushed. 

“At least she was married by a priest,” Mrs. Peter¬ 
sen interjected mournfully as she sank back into the 
depths of her chair. Helga and her father were both 
Lutherans, and this had been her mother’s deepest 
grief and worry. At least Florence, who was of her 
mother’s faith, had had that much consideration. 
Helga’s eyes softened. 

“Why, I am glad of that, Mother,” she said softly, 
“and perhaps it was the best thing that could have 
happened. Do you know anything about him?” 


272 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Not a thing/’ Ed rattled the keys in his pocket, 
“and I’m not interested. She can’t get into any worse 
company than what she was in—and p’raps she’ll pick 
up a little sense if this feller has the guts to step on 
her once’n a while. It’s true, Ma, you know it,” he 
went on as he saw his mother wince. “You’n Pa 
couldn’t do a thing with her—and Pa was all wore 
out waiting for her to get home nights—that, and wor- 
ryin’ over this contract.” 

He pinioned Helga’s arms, and in spite of her 
strength she knew that he was one of the few men who 
could hold her immovable, light and wiry as he looked. 

“Say, Kid,” he said and now his leathery face wrin¬ 
kled into a fleeting, jovial smile, “say, Kid, I think 
the Petersen family has turned the corner and is lookin’ 
up. And you’re the girl that’s helpin’ it along. Three 
cheers for the—the—” he stammered, “the Four Dar¬ 
ing Petersens!” 

Tina, Helga and her father tried to follow his lead, 
but the girl saw her mother’s hand quickly cross her¬ 
self, and knew that this poor heart was always to be 
tormented with loss. Yet deep in the girl’s own mind 
was the unpleasant consciousness that Florence’s de¬ 
fection touched scarcely a chord of real emotion in 
her own heart. They had never been close, and had of 
late years been almost inimical to each other. 

She flung her hat on the chair and sat down, stretch¬ 
ing her arms and mouth in a wide yawn. It was good, 
in a way, to be the old Venus. In this atmosphere her 
very body seemed to come alive again, to shake off 
the little stiffnesses of poise that it had acquired in 
the last few months. It was good to sprawl here 
among the hideous leather cushions which had been 
battered by many a playful fight, and to feel every 
muscle of her splendid frame relax—relax as only a 


HOME AGAIN 


m 


professional athlete can relax. She spread her fingers 
and flexed her arms in the same old impersonal way. 

Ed was watching her with amusement. 

“You’re just rarin’ to go, aren’t you?” Helga 
laughed. 

“Why, I believe I am,” she answered wonderingly, 
and then with some doubt, “but I need a lot of warm¬ 
ing up, Ed. Do we still have the use of old Dan’s 
gym?” Her brother nodded. 

“Sure, though I don’t go down so much lately. You 
lay off today, get your visitin’ over with the women— 
and tomorrow Pa and I’ll take you down and see how 
you’re workin’. You’re tanned some, so I suppose you 
been outdoors a good bit this summer.” 

“At camp,” the girl said briefly, and loved her fam¬ 
ily for making no comments. They had never been the 
inquisitive sort. Hadn’t been inquisitive enough about 
Flo. Pa and ma were the kind that could only love— 
and suffer. 

“It’s good to be back,” she said again luxuriously. 
“You don’t know how—how contented I feel.” 

“Does that mean—happy, Venus?” Tina asked, 
flitting across the room to hover about the girl’s 
chair. Helga looked up and pulled the little creature 
into her lap. 

“It’s better than — just happy,” she laughed. 
“How’s the steeple jack trade?” Tina looked a little 
mournful. 

“Not so good. Other women are getting into it, 
and I’m—I’m a bit old, Venus.” 

“Nonsense.” The girl hugged her, but she silently 
acquiesced in the unspoken decision of the whole 
family. There was one book they all knew thoroughly, 
one education they had mastered—the art of keeping 
the body firm—and the knowledge of almost the 


274 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


exact moment when it was past its prime. Tina knew 
that she had spoken the truth, the girl and her family 
knew it. Tranquilly they accepted the fact, as they 
might have wept but been matter-of-fact about a 
worn-out circus horse. But it was the family creed to 
ignore such a situation until the person concerned 
finally reached the retiring point. Petersen had known 
when his wife must decide between motherhood and 
her profession, the point when she was no longer able 
to excel in both—but he had said no word until the 
day she had thrown her cloak on the floor of the tent, 
picked up tiny Helga from the basket, and placed the 
child in her father’s arms. A magnificent woman, still 
in her supple thirties, with seemingly no vigor im¬ 
paired, she had spoken with lips that did not quiver. 

“This’ll be our last week, Pa. I can’t do the bars 
and the baby too. And I’ve put on five pounds since 
she came.” 

That was all. There had been no prolonged weeping 
for either of them, no turning of their faces wistfully 
back to the Big Tops—no whimpering discussions as 
to whether the children could be put to board. 

As though the same thought had wended through the 
minds of all of them, Mrs. Petersen bit a thread and 
looked up calmly. 

“You’ll never put on weight like I did, Tina,” she 
said with apparent irrelevance, and Tina understood. 
She rose slowly and laughed. (In that moment Helga 
thought how like she was to Frankie in temperament 
and appearance. Frankie grown old, Frankie more 
sweetened and chastened by struggle.) 

“Well, folks,” she said affectionately, “I got enough 
to bring me in around fifteen hundred or two thousand 
per each and every year. How’s that?” 

“Good and plenty,” Ed drawled, then his eyes twin- 


HOME AGAIN 


275 


kled. “I think Til make you my beneficiary, Tina,” 
he said. “Pa and Ma’ll never spend what they got, 
anyway—look at this!” He waved his arm around the 
room. “Besides, you and me are more in the same 
line, and I got a hunch that if you ever retire you’ll just 
burn up the spondulix tearin’ around.” His aunt 
boxed his ears affectionately, then she hurried to the 
kitchen and called back to Helga. 

“I bet you didn’t eat much on the train. Come out 
—I got a nice lunch for you.” Helga rose with alac¬ 
rity. For the first time in several days she felt hungry. 


XVIII 

The Brick Loft 



O the superficial glance, it was just a brick 
loft above a battered garage, a garage 
which in its former days had obviously 
been a blacksmith’s shop. The street on 
which the little two-story building stood 
was now a mere back-alley turning off from East 

-th Street. Long ago, tenements and shops had 

trespassed here, and now only the initiate—and that 

included nearly all the denizens of East-th Street 

—knew that when one had a new turn to work out, a 
new gag that involved acrobatic work, Dan’s Place 
could be acquired almost at a moment’s notice. 

The Street has been absorbed by circus folk and 
their emulators in vaudeville. If a real estate agent 
is looking for some one who will walk on stilts along 
new-laid avenues, as an advertisement for a town 
boom, he finds his man somewhere on the Street. If 
the member of a vaudeville team is tearing his hair 
because his partner has measles, he knows where he 
can find a short-time partner. Here you will run into 
retired circus folk and the more active members of 
their family. 

The season was dull now, for the Big Tops were 
shortly to come into winter quarters. Three weeks 
later, and Dan’s Place would be in more demand for 
those who would already begin working out their “busi¬ 
ness” for the coming summer. But at present, the 
Street was quiet, the lethargy of unoccupied homes 
still claimed it. So it was that when Helga and her 
















THE BRICK LOFT 


277 


father and brother mounted the warped wooden steps 
to the loft, their footsteps echoed through an empty 
building. 

The loft, or the gymnasium, was deceptively small, 
seen from outside. When one stood within it, however, 
one realized the immense area which it in reality cov¬ 
ered. Here were sawdust rings where, if Dan were 
in the humor, one could put trained dogs through their 
paces. Here were trapezes, the apparatus for tight- 
roping, and all the various and more technical appur¬ 
tenances of a gymnasium for professionals. Dan had 
made a good thing of it, and he could afford to refuse 
the many offers to sell which had come to him from 
far-sighted Hebrews. His prices were low, but his 
clientele large. Moreover, throughout the States, there 
was hardly an amusement park, circus or variety 
theater where Dan could not obtain passes. 

While Ed and her father were adjusting, tightening 
and testing the supports and wire, Helga sought the 
tiny dressing room and slipped hastily into her old 
working suit and resined shoes. She smiled in faint 
reminiscence at the battered posters and scribbled wit¬ 
ticisms that still adorned the wooden walls. She had 
been only five years old when her father and mother 
had brought her to this room and she had gravely put 
her hand in Dan’s rough paw. Dan had shaken his 
head and said that she would have to try hard to live 
up to her mother’s reputation. And her mother, why, 
yes, she remembered, her mother had cried and put her 
arms around her. How pretty her mother had been 
then, how alive. 

Helga ran out of the room and stood for a moment 
poised in the doorway. She scuffled her feet in one of 
the sawdust rings, then leaping out she called to the 
men. 


278 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Here I come!” With only a deep breath, she 
started cart-wheeling down the entire length of the 
loft toward them, cart-wheels so timed that she arose 
exactly in front of them and made a deep bow. Her 
cheeks were flushed and her hair, braided tightly and 
bound about her head, was ruffled into a brief halo 
where it had skimmed the floor. 

“Good!” her father exclaimed with approval, but 
Ed shook his head a little. 

“You’re puffin’ a bit,” he commented. Helga 
shrugged. 

“Give me a little time,” she said lightly and Ed said 
no more. 

“Going to put me through some exercises first?” 
Helga queried humbly, suddenly realizing that Ed had 
been right. Her breath did seem more difficult to con¬ 
trol than it had once been. He nodded. Then for five 
minutes she followed his directions, with a few com¬ 
ments from her father. Most of the exercises were 
standardized ones, with a few of Ed’s and Venus’s 
own invention—notably her main test of equilibrium. 
Two leather balls were inflated, and on these she stood, 
propelling them across the floor with her feet. Grad¬ 
ually her speed increased, until by the cunning dex¬ 
terity of toe and heel, she seemed actually to be pur¬ 
suing the rolling spheres on a run. Not once did 
either foot touch the floor by even a fraction. When 
Ed called a halt she turned to him for approval and he 
smiled. 

“That’s better. Are you ready for the wire?” 

“Ready! I’m aching to go,” she laughed and ran 
up the iron ladder to the small platform. Then came 
the real business of the morning. For fifteen-minute 
periods, with long rests between, she walked, ran, 
danced upon the wire, varying the practice with mock 


THE BRICK LOFT 


279 


missteps during which she slipped, half fell from the 
wire, regained her feet and slid skilfully across to the 
platform. 

'‘That’s enough for today,” Ed finally called 
abruptly, and Helga descended to the floor. She was 
conscious that she was warm, and that her knees were 
beginning to tremble slightly. Her father peered at 
her a little sadly. 

“Funny how quick folks get out of practice,” he 
commented querulously. “Once was a time when 
Venus could’ve kept that up all day.” 

Helga flushed deeper with wounded pride. It seemed 
strange to be criticized, she who had been the baby 
wonder of the family, who had always known that 
Florence could never equal her. 

“Am I as bad as all that?” she asked Ed. He tapped 
his teeth reflectively with a finger. 

“You’re not bad at all—you’re damn good, Venus. 
It’s just that-” 

“Well?” 

—“while you do everything just as well, it doesn’t 
seem to come so easy to you—there doesn’t seem to be 
so much reserve behind it.” He picked up her hands 
suddenly and turned them palm upward. 

“H’m, pretty soft, they are. I wondered, because 
when you did that slipping off business—your fake 
fall—you didn’t seem to make an awful quick recovery. 
I wondered then if your hands were as tough for the 
wire, as they used to be.” Helga drew them away 
quickly. 

“They aren’t—yet,” she admitted frankly. “You 
read about the fire we had?” He nodded. “Well, I 
think I strained one of the ligaments in my right hand 
that night—and the instep of this foot is still tender 
where it was blistered.” She shuddered and then went 


280 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


on. “Of course that doesn’t hurt when I’m on the 
wire but when I pull myself up from below it, my hand 
hurts a little, and I scraped my foot.” Ed gazed out 
of the window. 

“You can’t afford minor aches and pains in this 
business, Kid,” he declared, “so forget ’em. I guess 
the only trouble with you is you been living too easy. 
If you’re going to do this, and you can do it, just 
remember your bones and muscles and organs, and 
forget the rest—sore feet and all. You never was the 
complainin’ sort like Flo.” 

“I don’t intend to be,” Helga’s upflung head was 
proud, “I was just explaining.” Ed patted her back. 

“Sure. But don’t forget that when you’re tight- 
roping six stories above ground, it won’t do you no 
good to explain how you happened to miss the wire.” 

“Six stories! Are they planning to have a net?” 
Helga questioned quickly. 

“They’s some sort of society agitating they got to 
have a net,” Ed said dryly, “but your boss, Rosen¬ 
berg, wants to get a thrill for his money. Anyway, 
Kid, that’s not your business. Do you ever begin 
thinkin’ about that , you’re done.” 

“Naturally.” The girl’s tone was a little cool. But 
as she walked to the door with them, the irony of 
Frankie’s words about Leda, recurred to her, “and 
she was terribly mutilated—though he never knew 
that.” Well, he couldn’t help but know this, if such 
a thing could happen. For she knew, knew as well as 
she knew the risk she was planning to take, that Drake 
Gellert, probably Miles, too, would be in the street 
crowd that would gather to watch her on the four¬ 
teenth of September. 

“How about Mr. Rosenberg?” she asked her father 
as they came out into the street. “I suppose he doesn’t 


THE BRICK LOFT 


281 


know anything about Florence? Shouldn’t I see him 
right away?” Her father chuckled a little and peered 
at her dimly as he trotted along by her side. 

“Guess you don’t need to worry about that, Baby,” 
he said. “He’ll be pretty tickled to get you instead.” 

“Nevertheless, I think I’ll see him right away,” 
Helga said crisply. “I want to see the contract, get it 
changed and look it over.” 

When she reached home she called up Mr. Rosen¬ 
berg and requested him to stop in and see her. He was 
rather insistent that she call at his office, but quickly 
capitulated when she murmured mysterious anxieties 
about the contract. The day was too near, the adver¬ 
tising had been too expensive, to take a chance at this 
late date. He must humor the girl. But he cursed a 
little as he stepped out of his car, mounted the steps 
of the little house, and wiped his perspiring face. He 
wished now he had never started the damn business. 
His last talk with the girl had been unsettling and 
doubt-provoking. Florence Petersen’s family had a 
great name, but he suspected that she was trading on 
it. He could have sworn that she went into a blue 
funk right after signing the contract. Wished he’d 
engaged Ed instead. That boy had the face of an anvil, 
just as hard and just as steady. It wouldn’t have done 
any good, though—Ed wouldn’t have touched the stunt 
—and was rotten about his sister’s taking it on. 

He pressed the bell with a fervent finger, and the 
door opened so quickly that he almost fell into the 
doorway. He gazed a moment and then removed his 
hat with almost absurd swiftness. Helga retreated 
down the hall before him. In her crisp white summer 
dress and impersonal manner she made Mr. Rosenberg 
feel uncomfortably that he was in an aristocratic hos¬ 
pital under the supervision of an uncommonly pretty 


282 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


and aloof nurse. He entered the room behind her. 

They were alone. This, too, was a surprise. The 
time he had dropped in here with the contract in order 
to apply the last pressure, he had found the whole 
Petersen family congregated. He had felt comfort¬ 
able immediately then, in spite of Ed’s trying silences. 
They were an ordinary family, rather foreign looking 
(this, in superb disregard of the mere eight years he 
had spent in America) and they couldn’t overawe 
him! As soon as he found that the flashy little 
daughter was in obstinate agreement with him, he 
could ignore the querulous father, the dour mother, 
and the lantern-jawed Ed. 

It was different now. Helga had seated herself 
quietly at a very business-like desk and was watching 
him arrange his hat, his caneM-and his feet. Finally 
she spoke. 

“I am Helga Petersen. I asked you to come here 
because I have an apology to offer.” 

“An apology? I never seen you before.” 

“I know you haven’t, Mr. Rosenberg. I am apolo¬ 
gizing for my sister. She has just been—married, and 
she left for the Coast two days ago, with her hus¬ 
band. No, wait a moment. We had no suspicion that 
she was going to do this, but it is done. Now-” 

But Mr. Rosenberg was on his feet. His plump face 
was purple and his awe of this girl had been quickly 
forgotten. He clenched his fist. 

“Of all the - - dirty tricks!” he choked. 

“That was a legal contract—and I can bring it to 
law!” Helga had not moved. 

“Bring it to law, if you like—but I advise you to 
listen to me first,” she replied without raising her voice. 

“Listen! What good’ll listenin’ do now?” 

“It will do you a lot of good.” The man sank back 




THE BRICK LOFT 


283 


in his chair, but his face was ugly. Her own contempt 
for him was mitigated by her equal contempt for her 
sister, and her pity for him. She knew well enough 
what a blow this was. 

“You know the family reputation/’ she said. He 
sneered a little, but she insisted. Finally he answered 
grudgingly. 

“I know what it—was. Didn’t I fall for it?” 

“We have a name for—making good. We feel as 
badly as you—perhaps worse. For that reason, I am 
offering to take—my sister’s place, if you want me 
to.” He sat up in surprise and blinked at her. 

“You! Who are you? What have you ever done?” 

The girl’s smile was faint. 

“I said I was Helga Petersen, but I presume most 
people know me by my nickname—Venus.” There 
was a dead silence and then the man wet his lips. 

“Well, I’m damned! So you’re Venus Petersen—the 
girl who used to do the high dives—and the girl who 
did the tight-rope stunt on a ship when you were just a 
kid?” 

“Yes. Will I do?” 

The man relaxed and beamed at her. 

“Will you do? You’re kidding me. You know I’d 
rather have you than any one I ever heard of. You 
always been kind of a—a slippery person to get ahold 
of. My friends tell me you was always hard to sign 
up, and always good when you did. I wish I’d known 
this, though. Your name would’ve meant more. I’ll 
change the contract right this minute and send you 
copies—or bring ’em tomorrow for you to sign. Say, 
I just can’t get over that you’re Venus Petersen. For a 
moment when you opened the door I thought I was on 

Riverside instead of -th Street.” Helga flushed 

painfully. 



284 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Let me see the contract.” He leaned over her 
shoulder while she studied it, but she did not stir. She 
knew the value of immobility. She heard him sigh 
and move away a little, as though the unyielding pride 
of her quiet head rebuked him. Finally she turned. 

“It’s all right, if you simply change the names. Nat¬ 
urally I would never have signed up at such a figure, 
but as my sister is responsible, I will not ask you to 
raise it.” But she noticed that he was hardly listen¬ 
ing. His eyes were on her hand. 

“You’re married, ain’t you?” he asked blandly. 
“What’s your married name?” 

She stared at him coldly a moment and he added 
hastily, “Because of the contract I got to have both 
names, you know.” 

“It’s hardly necessary. However, my married name 
is Gellert.” 

“Gellert?” With maddening deliberation he drew 
out a gold pencil, moistened it with his tongue and 
painfully inscribed the name in a memorandum book. 
The girl watched him weakly, her mind confused. 
Drake was being dragged into this already. Then she 
shrugged. Need she worry over the Gellert name? 

“Of course you will not use that name publicly,” she 
said quietly. “I must insist upon that. It is my pri¬ 
vate identity, and of no concern to the public. I do 
not even wish it stated that I am married.” Mr. 
Rosenberg stared at her in dismay. 

“If it was a vawdyveel turn, I could see that, of 
course,” he admitted. “The public likes the young 
ones to be single. But when you’re doing a Death- 
Defying Feat, it kind of gives ’em a thrill to think of 
the Man who is Watching and Waiting for you!” 

The girl’s lips trembled into a smile, but she main¬ 
tained the severity of her tone. 


THE BRICK LOFT 


285 


“I must insist upon your not using it,” she declared 
again, “and the contract must state that no publicity 
whatever will be given to my married name or the 
fact that I am married.” 

Mr. Rosenberg heaved a profound sigh. 

“Very well, I suppose I must. But it would be 
just the thing to catch ’em all,” he added mournfully. 
“Did you marry some one in the business?” His tone 
was hopeful. The girl shook her head. 

“No.” Again he sighed at this adamant taciturnity 
—like her brother, she was, then he heaved himself 
from the chair and picked up his hat. 

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Gellert,” he said 
jocularly and took his departure. 


XIX 

Desdemona 



HAT night her mother beckoned Helga 
mysteriously into the kitchen, while Tina, 
deprived of her usual task of wiping the 
dishes, wandered disconsolately into the 
sitting room in search of Ed. He was 
never too tired or too bored to sit, knee to knee with 
her, struggling over a cross-word puzzle. 

“Fer the love of Mike,” Tina would often murmur 
indignantly, “can you imagine havin’ to make a livin’ 
writin’ these things! Honest, it would wear me out!” 
And Ed would soberly agree. Lean knees drawn un¬ 
der his chin, brows furrowed in a frenzied pursuit of 
words, he would spend evening after evening in this 
way with Tina—always excepting a certain evening 
each week. It was this constant exception that was 
now causing his mother’s fine black brows to swoop 
together as she closed the kitchen door softly and 
turned to her perplexed daughter. 

For a moment she seemed inarticulate, for her hand 
had threshed the warm water into a spume of lather 
before she spoke. Helga waited patiently and during 
the silence deftly arranged the glasses on the sink. 
Poor ma. She would never learn how to pile dishes— 
and how much easier system really is. 

“Helga!” Mrs. Petersen’s voice was abrupt. “I’m 
worried about your brother.” 

“No, Ma!” The girl’s heart sank a little. Herself, 
Florence—and now Ed. Ed who seemed so staunch, 
whose personality had always held that quality of 
sureness—a personality which had never needed to 
286 









DESDEMONA 


287 


express itself in minor idosyncrasies of temperament. 
Her mother took no note of the interruption. 

“All the girls made a shine over Ed—you know 
that, Helga—until he got sick of them all. That boy 
doesn’t go out with a woman since he came twenty. I 
worry, I worry at night all the time, then, because it 
wasn’t in human nature to be so without liking for the 
nice women. Then I see that he is studying hard—all 
such books as travel—and—and astro—what is that 
about the stars?” 

“Astronomy, Ma.” 

“Yes, astronomy—though what he should want with 
stars I don’t know. Maybe it’s the climbin’ that 
makes him think of it, you think?” Without waiting 
for an answer she hurried on. “So I stop worrying and 
just feel good that my big boy stays at home with his 
family. Until—it is just three months that he has 
been going out every week, one night. I say to pa, 
‘What is it, what is it?’ And your pa, he just laughs 
and says it is a club or a lodge, most likely. And for 
a while I don’t worry. And then comes this, Helga. 
One night pa feels low, like he was no good to any¬ 
body, and Ed takes him to the movies. And a ring 
comes on the telephone—for Ed. I answer. It is a 
girl’s voice—a young girl, too, Helga. Me, I know. 

“She asks for Ed—it is the night he most often 
goes. When I say he is at the movies—her voice has 
tears in it. Now, Helga, what do you think—” Mrs. 
Petersen’s voice trembled a little, “—do you think 
Ed is—mixed up like he shouldn’t be? My boy! 
Never a moment of worry since he had the measles 
when he was six. But if he has a nice girl, why 
wouldn’t he be telling me? Should he not bring her to 
me some time?” 

Helga’s voice was gentle, though she was puzzled. 


288 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“There might be lots of reasons, Ma. Maybe it 
isn’t what you think at all. But I tell you what. I’ll 
ask him—to take me.” She spoke a little grimly. 
“Ed ought to be as frank with me as he expects me 
to be with him. Is tonight the night he usually goes?” 
Her mother nodded mutely. Helga replaced a pile of 
dishes and wiped her hands swiftly on the roller towel. 
Then putting an arm about her mother’s shoulders, 
she gave them a light squeeze. 

“I’ll tackle him now,” she laughed and had the re¬ 
ward of her mother’s faint smile. 

The girl was given a better opportunity than she had 
hoped, for as she came out into the tiny entrance 
hall, she ran into Ed. He was shrugging himself into a 
light overcoat, and it seemed to her that his light, 
jockey-like figure had a sprucer air than usual. She 
seized his lapels. 

“Going out, Eddy?” 

“Yeh.” She pouted. 

“Whether it’s a girl or a show, you’ve got to take 
me. It’s not fair to sneak out almost the first evening 
I’m home.” For a moment she thought she was going 
to receive a blank refusal. Then his lips closed on 
the words he had been about to say. Eyes narrowed, 
he studied her speculatively. Then he drew on his 
gloves with the nicety that characterized every move¬ 
ment of his hands. 

“Get your hat ’n coat.” Helga dashed breathlessly 
into her room and hurried into her things. She won¬ 
dered at her easy victory and feared that he would 
change his mind. Of course, if he had “a girl” he 
wasn’t intending to take her there. But she would 
have the opportunity to question him a little—non¬ 
chalantly. Had he gone without her, after all? No, 
there he was on the sidewalk, replacing his watch in 


DESDEMONA 


289 


his pocket, with the purposeful and anxious air of a 
man who has a serious appointment. 

A little deflated by her own temerity, she swung 
along beside him in silence, matching her steps evenly 
to his, and trying to summon sufficient courage for 
another question. He saved her the embarrassment. 
They had passed out of their own rather dingy little 
street, and were now striding through a residential dis¬ 
trict that with every block grew more prosperous. 
Presently the apartment houses grew less ornate, and 
private homes lined the broad walk, shrinking behind 
wrought iron gates. It was as they passed one of 
these, that Ed suddenly halted and spoke. 

“We’re goin’ in the next one, Venus,” and his tones 
were as embarrassed as their dry quality could ever 
be. His sister looked at him in silent amazement. 

“We’re callin’ on a—a girl friend of mine—a very 
good friend, and I know I can count on you, Venus, to 
be as nice to her as you know how to be. She—she 
ain’t like us, you see.” Helga almost suppressed a 
startled smile. What Ed had said was undoubtedly 
true. Any girl that lived in this—a house which didn’t 
scream of money, but which murmured of it richly— 
would certainly not be remotely of Ed’s type, or hers 
either. And it would be the other way around as far 
as being pleasant went. How completely like a man, 
how completely like Ed, had been that innocent re¬ 
mark. Suddenly another possibility struck her. 

“She works here, Ed?” Her tone was composed, 
though inwardly she shrank a little. She knew Ed’s 
profession, Ed’s grammar, barred him forever from the 
people with whom she had been associating—yet this 
other possibility would—hurt a little. Or would it? 
But he smiled his dry, twisted smile. 

“She doesn’t work here, she lives here. She has 


290 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


never done a stroke of work in all her life. Name’s 
Barlow,” he added gruffly, as he pressed the bell. A 
moment later the iron gate opened automatically, and 
as they walked the brief distance between gate and 
door the latter also swung open. This time it was a 
maid who opened it, and at the sight of Ed her face 
broke into a very human smile. Helga, still dazed, 
nevertheless noted that the maid threw a doubtful look 
in her direction. 

“Miss Barlow’s been fretting terribly, sir, for fear 
you weren’t coming. Please go right up.” Ed chatted 
affably with the girl as she took their coats, and led 
them to the lift, but Helga was unable to open her 
lips. What had she stepped into? As the little auto¬ 
matic elevator purred softly upward, she felt an angry 
moisture strike her eyelids. Why had her mother, why 
had Ed let her blunder into this? Why didn’t he 
explain? As they stepped into a dimly lighted corri¬ 
dor, she would have ignominiously begged to be left 
on the broad divan that stood near had it not been that 
Ed’s very look challenged her to carry her imperti¬ 
nence through. 

A door opened before them. Through the aperture 
Helga caught a glimpse of a dim, cheery room, of a 
fire glowing in a huge, ebony-manteled fireplace. 
Further details were blotted out by the figure of the 
woman who hurried to meet them. She greeted Ed 
first with the same eagerness which the maid had 
displayed. Tall, angular, spinsterish, with no visible 
richness in her dress, Helga immediately knew her 
for one of the family. Her words had that unmistak¬ 
able modulation without which a voice is damned, be 
its grammar however pure. 

“Mr. Petersen! Edna will be so glad—and is this 
the sister you have spoken of? This is very nice 


DESDEMONA 


291 


indeed, Miss Petersen,—my niece is so lonely—and 
there are so few people she will see. I am sure your 
sister, Mr. Petersen-” the voice trailed into vague¬ 

ness as she ushered them into the room, and Helga 
read doubt in the very emphasis with which she had 
spoken. She hesitated, but Ed slipped her arm 
through his. 

Straight across the heavy Oriental rugs he drew her, 
rugs whose colors were picked out only in tiny jewels 
by the capricious fire. In spite of the warm, comfort¬ 
ing atmosphere which was heavy with the fragrance 
of forced roses, the room was almost dark. Only two 
shaded lamps cut the twilight through which Helga 
could vaguely discern, here and there, ponderous pieces 
of rich furniture crouching in the shadows like friendly 
monsters. Then she saw the goal for which Ed was 
making, and in the seconds during which they ap¬ 
proached, caught her breath in utter surprise and pity. 

. . and this is my sister Miss Petersen, Miss Bar- 
low , 5 ’ Ed was saying. 

Helga leaned down and took the cold little hand that 
was diffidently extended to her from the depths of the 
great wheel chair. The lamp near by had been clev¬ 
erly arranged—by the elderly woman who had just 
disappeared—so that though an oval of light fell on 
the pallidly beautiful face of the young invalid, deep, 
kindly shadows somewhat masked the crooked back. 

Seeing that for the moment, despite her brief cour¬ 
teous recognition of the interloper, Miss Barlow’s eyes 
were all for Ed, Helga sank back in her chair and 
tried to compose her countenance, on which consterna¬ 
tion and compassion were struggling. The picture 
before her was worth studying—the alert, slight figure 
of Ed, with his hard mouth and cool, keen eyes; 
the pure, fragile profile of the girl, the slender head 


292 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


crowned with a soft mass of light brown curls—and 
crowding close to the exquisite head that hideous 
humped back—an eternal menace of suffering and 
humiliation. Helga was not imaginative, but even 
she felt her mind struggling in the realms of myth and 
history for a parallel to this incongruous, almost mon¬ 
strous companionship. Then she started. Miss Bar- 
low had spoken to her, had turned directly facing her, 
as though at least to hold the shield of her superb, 
sorrowful eyes before her affliction. 

“So you are Ed’s sister Helga!” she exclaimed 
softly. “How lovely and strong you are, just as he 
said. But you don’t look like him—he’s not hand¬ 
some.” She laughed shyly. “And how good of you 
to come with Ed tonight.” 

Ed did not glance up and Helga saw that his hands 
twisted in a nervousness unlike him. 

“Helga didn’t know where she was cornin’ until she 
got here, Edna,” he said bluntly. The girl shrank 
back a little and her smile at Helga dimmed. 

“How stupid of you, Ed,” she said gently. “It—it 
must have been a shock for your sister.” Then, pity¬ 
ing the agonized embarrassment on Helga’s face, she 
went on bravely. “Ed is the first—friend I ever had, 
except my aunt. I—has he ever told you how I just— 
grabbed him? No, of course not—if he hasn’t spoken 
of me.” Her lip quivered a little and Ed interrupted. 

“You know why I haven’t spoken of you, Edna,” he 
said bruskly. “It’s—I’ve been selfish. I wanted to 
keep you all to myself.” How had he known how to 
say the right thing so unerringly, Helga wondered, as 
the invalid’s face brightened. 

“Was that really it, Ed?” she asked ingenuously. 
“Well then, let me have the fun of telling your sister 
how I got to know you.” 


DESDEMONA 


293 


“Yes?” Helga’s tone held all the interest that Edna 
Barlow’s naivety seemed to demand. She folded her 
absurd little hands in her lap and laid her head back 
against the silken shawl that covered her cushions. 

“Let’s see—it was three months or so ago. I was 
just eighteen three months ago. On my birthday I 
thought I was going insane.” The tired little voice 
held no tone of drama. It was as though she had 
said: “I had a bad headache.” 

“You see, Helga—I may call her Helga, Ed?—I’ve 
never walked—never. And I never shall. Nowadays 
I just feel sorry for myself sometimes at night—and 
cry when I am alone. But it isn’t a hateful sort of 
feeling—as it was before I knew Ed.” The luminous 
faith in the look she threw the man caused a mist to 
rise before Helga’s eyes. She dropped her glance 
before its sad reflection in her brother’s face. 

“On my eighteenth birthday I think I was really 
going insane,” repeated Edna quietly. “I struck my 
aunt, I remember. I screamed—they had to have one 
of the housemen hold me. Yet all the time—in a way, 
I knew my mind was all right. It was just that I 
couldn’t bear it any more—to be shut up here—away 
from—every one. If I could only have had something 
to remember, something to remember. I don’t sup¬ 
pose you have ever felt like that, Helga?” she asked 
a little anxiously. Helga’s dissent was stifled. Edna 
sighed. 

“No, I suppose not,” she said politely. “I keep for¬ 
getting that nobody—nobody is quite like— me. Well, 
anyway, my aunt was distracted. Then she remem¬ 
bered that two years ago I had begged and begged to 
be carried out in the street that time Ed climbed part 
of the Singer building. It seemed to me then, the only 
thing that I had ever wanted that she had refused me. 


294 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


Of course it wouldn’t have been the thing. I’m glad 
now I didn’t go. You’ll be shocked, Helga, though Ed 
wasn’t when I told him—but the reason I wanted to go 
was because—because I hoped he’d fall! I—I wanted 

to see—to know that someone else-” she choked 

a little and Ed’s hand stole quietly to hers and covered 
her quivering fingers. She did not draw them away. 
Indeed, Helga marvelled, it was as though the two of 
them were alone, and she but a symbol that empha¬ 
sized their solitude. 

“So my aunt thought—she was nearly as upset as 
I—about the one thing she had ever refused me. And 
she promised, if I would quiet down, that she would 
try and bring Ed to me. It wasn’t the same—still I 
was curious—and Ed came to me.” In the last slow 
words were the summing up of all the joy her life had 
held. “And Ed came to me,” she repeated. Her eyes 
widened and in them Helga saw the unearthly sim¬ 
plicity and sophistication of the shut-away. 

“And since then,” she concluded, “I’m not lone¬ 
some any more. He comes once a week and tells me 
about all the things he has done, and about you—and 
queer stories that your father and mother and friends 
have told him about the old-time circus people. I’ve 
bought some wonderful books, books about all the first 
acrobatic performers in Italy and other places. But 
Ed’s stories are the best of all.” 

“You must be a very persuasive person,” Helga 
smiled, triumphing over the lump in her throat. “Ed 
has never been known to utter two sentences at a time 
to any one else.” Edna’s pale lips curved into lovely 
lines. 

“Ed,” she said abruptly, “can I tell Helga?” Ed’s 
hand went up to his face covering his eyes. 

“Sure—Edna.” 



DESDEMONA 


295 


“It’s just this—” the girl turned to Helga and with 
a swift, breathless movement drew a ring from the 
bosom of her dress. It was on a ribbon, but as it 
lay in Helga’s palm it was still warm from the flesh it 
had pressed. “Ed and I are engaged,” she said eagerly, 
and then as Helga’s lips parted, she went on, “no, wait. 
You must understand. It—that’s all it can ever be— 
you see? My back—and—my aunt wouldn’t. Ed 
would suffer too terribly from lots of things. But 
don’t you see what he’s given me? No matter what 
happens, no matter what happens —I’ve lived! and 
when Ed thinks of me, all he remembers are my pretty 
face and lovely hands—I have lovely hands—look at 
them, Helga-” 

She sank back, suddenly exhausted, and her lids fell 
like heavy white wings over her eyes. Ed sprang up 
and thrust an imperious arm about her. His face was 
white. But at his very touch she shuddered away from 
him. 

“Don’t—touch—my back, Ed,” she whispered. “I 
can’t bear that—you should think of it—belonging to 
me” The man’s lips went swiftly to her hair, and 
over her head his eyes, fierce and wounded, met his 
sister’s. Helga arose and turning her back walked 
slowly down the room. Desdemona and Othello, the 
eternal story. But the very travesty of frustration 
seemed to leer at these two. What could God have 
been thinking of when he brought this pair together? 
The mountebank, the very essence of whose character 
was fidelity, and the princess, upon whom a gargoyle 
had breathed. 

And yet — the very fantasy of this conjunction 
seemed to argue a deliberate scheme of Fate. And 
how judge other people’s compensations? Perhaps in 
this girl, whose very life was the stuff of dreams, or 


296 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


nightmares—some delicate thread that held her here 
would be rudely snapped by the touch of reality. Per¬ 
haps her cup—small as it was—was already full. But 
Ed? Helga turned the pages of a magazine unseeingly 
as she thought of Ed. Then she heard his light step 
behind her. 

“Edna overtired herself,” he said and his voice held 
a breathlessness that was new. “She begs you to 
excuse her saying good-by—her nurse is taking her 
back to her room—and insists that you shall come to 
see her again soon.” Helga was able to smile a little at 
the translation of Edna’s formalities into Ed’s dry 
speech. But she could not yet meet his eyes. 

In silence they stepped into the elevator and in 
silence left the house. For several blocks they walked, 
and then, as before, Ed was the first to break into their 
solitary thoughts. 

“Night’s clear. Stars ’re great tonight.” 

“Wonderful,” Helga acquiesced. 

Suddenly Ed gripped her arm and halted her. 

“Look at ’em, Venus. Don’t they make you feel 
kind of small and clean—and comfortable?” There 
was a quiet sort of surprise in Ed’s voice and Helga 
realized that the observation was not trite to him. 
Out of his own experience it had come to him, and it 
was in answer to it that the thumbed and elementary 
astronomical books lay on his desk. But his words put 
him too far away from her. She longed for a closer 
knowledge of this taciturn brother of hers. He had 
voluntarily opened for her the most significant chapter 
of his life and now he was firmly closing the book. 

“Ed,” she said deliberately, “Edna was—a dear— 
and I don’t blame you. You—you are really—in love 
with her?” 

“I—I don’t think I know what you mean by love,” 


DESDEMONA 


297 


he said at last, after a long pause. “I never held 
much with women. When you knew ’em well, they 
were cheap—kind of—and when you didn’t know ’em 
well, they were—uncomfortable. I’m comfortable 
with Edna,” he added simply. “Being with Edna,” he 
struggled for words, “is like looking at yourself in a 
nice clear little brook. You can see yourself and the 
sky at the same time—and the cool, shiny, little peb¬ 
bles on the bottom too. But—but if you touch the 
water—you’ve spoiled it all.” It was the longest 
speech she had ever heard Ed make, and Helga held 
her words until she was sure that he had finished. 
Finally she spoke, and used his own metaphor to com¬ 
fort his sudden embarrassment at having been any¬ 
thing but literal. 

“And you’ll always be content to look, never to— 
drink?” she asked quietly. They had started to walk 
on, and now they were in front of their own doorstep. 
Ed thrust his hands in his pockets. 

“I guess you’re feelin’ sorry for me, Kid. Snap out 
of it. I know—I’m lucky. I’d rather hold her hand 
than dance with any gay fluff you could trot out. So I 
don’t deserve no credit.” 

He whistled as he strode up the steps, but Helga 
understood the glance which he threw her from under 
pale lashes. It was not in the nature of the man to 
speak to her again of Edna Barlow; as it was, she had 
been awarded a confidence which he knew she would 
never break. 


XX 

Mr. Rosenberg is Soothed 

stretched her arms to the noon sun- 
that was creeping over her bed. She 
not slept well the last three nights, 
he change from a spacious, airy room 
his cramped, low-ceilinged chamber 
had been unconducive to sleep. September was prov¬ 
ing an unusually warm month here in New York, and 
the high, stone apartments on either side of the house 
seemed to retain all the heat of the day and radiate it 
into her windows, while at the same time they excluded 
the air and cut off all timorous breezes. She had 
turned and tossed all night, and had even risen once 
and padded into the living room for a forbidden cigar¬ 
ette—the first time she had ever really wanted one. 
It was then that she realized how deeply Ed was inter¬ 
ested in her coming venture. 

She had been leaning gratefully out of the window 
that faced the street, when she felt him beside her. 

“Thought I heard you get up. What for. Venus! 
Kill that cigarette!” Meekly she obeyed and made 
room for him at the window. 

“I was half suffocated by those walls,” she mur¬ 
mured. “I feel as though I could stick my hand out 
of my bedroom window and touch them—and that 
they’d be hot as ovens.” 

“Rot!” he said gruffly, “they’re yards away-” 

“I know it— but that’s the way they make me feel.” 

He suddenly put out a hand and touched her cheek. 

“You’re hot—and you haven’t been sleepin’ well, 
have you?” 



298 









MR. ROSENBERG IS SOOTHED 299 


“Not very.” 

Ed sighed and his voice was a little depressed. 

“We shouldn’t have dragged you into this—but you 
never used to have any—nerves. Venus,” his voice 
dropped to a whisper, “are you— afraid?” Somehow, 
there in the darkness, the inflection of his voice showed 
her an affection that he had never been able to express 
in words. She laid her hand on his. 

“Not the way you mean, Ed,” she reassured him. 
“I think—I think I’m as nervy as I ever was—though 
I’ll admit that I badly needed the practice I’ve been 
getting the last few days.” 

“Then what’s the matter, Venus? Is it—are you 
thinking about—your husband?” 

There was a silence. Suddenly the girl felt an 
overwhelming need of unburdening herself, of seeing 
the last few months through the unprejudiced eyes of 
this brother of hers. Funny, one never thought of Ed 
as being uneducated. She started hesitatingly at first, 
stumblingly, but his manifest interest and his thought¬ 
ful silence made her task easy. She gathered assurance 
and told him everything, even trying to make him see 
Miles and Drake as they really were, and not entirely 
through her eyes. When she had finished, Ed stirred. 

“So that’s the way it is. Venus, you should never 
have come back. You should have stuck it out. You 
are fond of—your husband.” 

“I don’t think so,” she said somberly. “Oh, can’t 
you see, Ed, that he despised us all, thought us com¬ 
mon and vulgar, and that—that he only cared for me— 
the way a lot of men have cared? Perhaps not as 
honestly.” Ed laughed. 

“What difference does that make? And I don’t 
believe he’s the bum you make him out to be-” 

“Oh, he isn’t that , Ed. Besides,” with a spiteful sat- 


300 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


isfaction, “he knows now how the Gellert family looks 
to me” 

“But I can see now,” Ed followed his original train 
of thought with the persistency that was characteristic 
of him, “why you don’t seem quite the same—why 
you’re worryin’ and not sleepin’. You’re wonderin’ all 
the time what’s going to happen afterward. You’re 
wonderin’ if he’ll ever understand you and make 
allowances. You’re wonderin’ if he’s going to be in the 
crowd watchin’ you—and if you’ll half kill him with 
worry. Ain’t that it?” 

Venus moved back from the window. Her voice was 
unsteady. 

“I hate him, Ed. I don’t give a damn what he 
thinks or what he’s doing. Really!” But her brother 
only put his arm around her shoulder and guided her 
back to her room. 

“You mustn’t think about those things, now. Try 
to sleep all you can—and no more cigs or I’ll swear I’ll 
take the slipper to you. You’ve got to make good on 
this stunt, Venus, you got to. Here’s Flo gone, Pa’s 
given up, and Auntie’s just about done. There’s just 
you’n me, now, old girl.” Helga hugged him. 

“Ed, you’re the best of the bunch and still going 
strong.” 

“I have been,” he said whimsically, “but you don’t 
know when I’ll crock. It’d kind of relieve you in a 
way, wouldn’t it, to have the family all out of the 
game?” The girl felt a clutch at her heart. 

“Why, no—no it really wouldn’t, Ed,” she said, 
with a little wondering tone at her own answer, linger¬ 
ing in her voice. “Ed, I’m proud of—us, and I’m 
proud of you. After all, being a good family means 
just doing best the things you can do, doesn’t it? I 
feel differently than I did. We’ve all been healthy 


MR. ROSENBERG IS SOOTHED 301 


and—and good, Ed, even Flo, though she was silly. 
And we’ve paid our debts and saved money—and 
we’ve always kept our friends. Ed,” she hung her 
head, “Ed, I don’t know just why I was ashamed, 
before. I,” she giggled a little through the tears that 
were gathering in her eyes, “I nearly changed from a 
famous Petersen to a notorious Gellert!” 

Ed chuckled with her and squeezed her shoulder 
again. She clung to him. In this moment, she was 
closer to him in understanding and affection than she 
had ever been with any other soul. How strange to 
have run away from home to find some one who would 
understand, when Ed had been here always—waiting 
for her to overlook his leathery face, his horsy man¬ 
nerisms—and know him. She could never lose him 
now. 

“That’s right—laff,” he urged her comically. “It’s 
damn funny—it sure is. You never had much of a 
sense of humor, Kid, but you’re gettin’ it knocked into 
you now. Don’t take yourself so serious. Now hop 
into bed and sleep ’til Ma calls you. Nine hours, no 
more, no less. And, Venus,” he held her hand in his 
rough, cool palm, “you’re goin’ back to the man 
that—” he paused in embarrassment, and then the 
darkness emboldened him “—that loves you. You 
got to. I swear I’ll take a slipper to you if you 
don’t. Now beat it!” 

She had jumped into bed as his footsteps padded 
away upstairs. And she had slept. 

Now as she woke, the world seemed somehow more 
livable. She yawned gloriously into her mother’s face 
as the latter entered the room with a tray. Then she 
threw back the covers and took the tray with a re¬ 
proachful smile. 

“What do you mean by waiting on me this way, 


302 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


Ma?” she asked. “You’ll be spoiling me.” Her 
mother seated herself heavily on the edge of the bed 
and surveyed her daughter with keen, humorous black 
eyes. 

“That’s already been done,” she declared. “Me, 
I don’t know where I am—with you runnin’ away first 
from your family, then from your husband. I sup¬ 
pose he’ll be coming down before tomorrow?” she 
asked casually. Helga attacked her breakfast and 
her eyes were averted. 

“I doubt it, Ma—because, you see, he didn’t want 
me to take Flo’s place. He—he’s angry with me.” 

“Sure,” her mother nodded comfortably and added 
wisely, “but after it’s over, you’ll be back with him.” 

“Perhaps.” Knowing her mother’s opinions on cer¬ 
tain subjects, the girl dared not openly state the situa¬ 
tion, yet it seemed advisable to gradually prepare the 
older woman to accept facts. 

“He’s good to you—Baby?” Helga’s eyes twinkled 
in spite of herself. 

“He’s never beaten me.” Mrs. Petersen’s face grew 
stern. 

“I should hope not—beat my baby. Me, I would 
take my hands to him, fat as I am, for such a thing. 
Pff!” Helga sought for a change of subject. 

“Are my clothes ready for tomorrow night, Ma?” 
Her mother nodded. 

“Tina cleaned ’em yesterday, it was—the little gold 
jacket and the green satin tights. I think you’re thin¬ 
ner than you was, though. You should eat more. 
Girls nowadays don’t take no pride in their figgers at 
all,” she shook her head darkly, “such slats as they 
are—all bones. Flo ain’t got no more figger than she 
had when she was eight.” A slow tear welled to her 
eyes at the mention of the girl’s name and Helga 


MR. ROSENBERG IS SOOTHED 303 


leaned toward her and patted her mother’s arm awk¬ 
wardly. Then Mrs. Petersen wiped her eyes. 

“I cry so easy these days,” she said drearily, “and 
why, I don’t know, with such good children as I got 
right with me. But things is all different—Pa sittin’ 
around and Flo gone. Why it is that a woman’s chil¬ 
dren and man should all go funny at the same time, 
I don’t know. Such a good man as your Pa is, too. 
But work—or talk about work, he will not. Only to 
the movies and around the house—all the time. It 
ain’t right.” Helga sat huddled into the bedclothes, 
silent, as her mother droned on. “But he’s got more 
int’rest about your business tomorrow than he’s had 
since you left. Be good to him, Helga—such babies 
these men are and they go—pff!—like the bubble, if 
you don’t make talk how grand they are all the time.” 
She turned now and looked at her daughter, and the 
girl knew that her mother had seen, all the time, the 
havoc which had been wrought in Pied Piper Peter¬ 
sen’s dream life by his daughter’s careless indictment. 
She had a passionate desire to see approval in her 
mother’s eyes. 

“Ma!” she exclaimed, “wait until you see me, to¬ 
morrow. I’m going to do my best—be better than I 
ever was. Won’t you—and Pa—be proud?” Her 
mother looked at her stolidly a moment. Massive and 
silent, with those shrewd eyes sunk in little ridges of 
flesh, with only the tiny plump hands remaining—like 
white pigeons fluttering from the ruin of an exquisite 
structure—she scrutinized her daughter. At last she 
spoke and her slow dignity was like a voice from a 
more ancient Italy—and earlier, sterner Rome. 

“Yes, my daughter, we shall be proud—proud that 
you are strong and good—that you take the family 
name on your shoulders. That is your first duty— 


304 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


now. And then we shall be proud to see you make 
good your new name—in another way. You have 
so much to learn—poor baby!” And she was gone 
from the room. But Helga arose and dressed herself 
with humble hands, and as she dressed she studied her¬ 
self in the cracked mirror. She felt deflated, like a 
bubble that discovers in itself beautiful colors—and 
that realizes, as it bursts, that its hues were not of 
itself, but of the sun. Had she fallen between two 
realities? Did she possess neither the polish of cul¬ 
ture that conceals fundamental failings—nor the grace 
of character and true kindliness that can face the world 
unveneered? It was disturbing, this new conception 
of Ed, this new awe of her mother. 

She gathered her working clothes into a bundle and 
tucked them under her arm as she left the room. Then 
she entered the kitchen, and found her mother piling 
dishes upon the sink hurriedly. 

“Did the door bell ring awhile ago?” Helga asked 
carelessly. “I’m expecting Mr. Rosenberg.” Her 
mother whirled and faced her with an excited face. 

“Baby! It is your—new husband! He waits there 
in the parlor for you. Such a time as he had, too,” 
she looked at her daughter reproachfully. “You forgot 
to leave your address and all over the city he goes—• 
and finds you like this. Go to him now.” 

Helga stood stricken. After her last words, he had 
come? She felt a trembling throughout her limbs and 
her face whitened. Finally she wet dry lips. 

“Ma, tell him to go away. I can’t see him—I can’t.” 

“Why not?” Her mother’s tone was sharp. Helga 
tried to center her thoughts. 

“Ma, tomorrow’s the day. If I see him, I’ll be all 
upset—all day. He’ll be worried—and he’ll worry 
me,” she added craftily, yet with truth. The older 


MR. ROSENBERG IS SOOTHED 305 


woman’s expression wavered, softened. She recog¬ 
nized the element of reason in the girl’s words. Then 
she shook her head. 

“It’s his right, Baby. And you’ll feel better to 
know that he’s with you, too, like all of us. He’s a 
good boy, Venus, and a fine, handsome one. Shoul¬ 
ders and a grand smile. He kissed me, Venus, when 
he knew who I was.” 

The girl’s eyes widened and then she sighed. She 
shrugged her shoulders with expressive contempt. She 
knew what that meant. She despised him for it. He 
was ready to take any attitude, to make any move that 
would prevent her from going through with the affair. 
Perhaps he would feel differently when she told him 
how carefully she had already protected his precious 
name. 

“Very well, Ma, I’ll go in,” she said lifelessly, and 
with a bitter smile, she walked into the dark passage¬ 
way. How still the living room was behind the porti¬ 
eres. Probably he was absorbed in studying the weird 
furnishings of the room, in condescending amusement 
at the plush rockers, the golden oak, the four portly 
goldfish in their old-fashioned bowl. Her cheeks 
burned hotly. It was as well she was seeing him. He 
would not dare look at her that way! She brushed 
aside the bead hangings and strode contemptuously 
into the room, like some dark Norse goddess. Every 
line of her supple young body expressed a regal indif¬ 
ference, every curve of her cheeks and red lips a 
superb knowledge of her own beauty. It was the 
impersonal, superior look which her public loved— 
though it was not followed by her slow, famous, witch¬ 
ing smile. 

In the center of the room she halted, and her expres¬ 
sion was unchanged though his attitude did not fit 


306 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


with her preconceived idea. He was sitting in her 
mother’s chair, his elbows on his knees and his face 
in his hands. For a moment he did not look up. When 
he did, he rose slowly to his feet and came toward her 
with an uncertain, pleading look that seemed to dwell 
hungrily on her tight-lipped face. 

“Helga—Helga, my dear—” he said, stretching out 
hands as though he reached through a blinding fog. 
The girl ignored those hands. She stepped back. 

“Was there something you wanted to see me about?” 
she asked in the brisk tone that one reserves for a sell¬ 
ing agent. His arms dropped to his side. 

“You still feel—the same?” 

“Why should I not? This,” she said cruelly, “is 
where I live—the place I come from. This is where 
Florence lived—you know—the ‘flashy friend’ of 
mine. You met my mother—” she eyed him fiercely, 
like a tigress. “If you come to see whether I am too 
impossible, do not trouble to assort your impressions. 
The matter is decided.” He drew himself up to his full 
height and looked at her directly. 

“Of what are you accusing me? Do you imagine,” 
slowly, “that anything makes any difference in my love 
for you?” He had phrased it unfortunately and she 
laughed, a short, cold laugh. 

“How can I imagine anything else? However, it is 
rather futile for you to struggle with your own preju¬ 
dices. My own happen to be as strong. You see,” 
she said delicately, “my mother is rather straight- 
laced-” the suggestion hung in the air. 

“That,” his words were deliberate, “is the first vul¬ 
gar thing I have known you to say. Your mother 
would never have been guilty of taunting a man with— 

his wife’s infidelity—and his uncle’s-” Helga sank 

into a chair. His words had struck home, and her 




MR. ROSENBERG IS SOOTHED 307 


angry realization of their truth stirred her to com¬ 
plete resistance. 

“Perhaps you are right—doesn’t that prove what I 
said to you before I left? Drake, go away!” She beat 
upon the arm of her chair and spoke with hysterical 
rapidity. “Don’t you know that tomorrow I have to 
go through with—the thing? Don’t you realize that I 
can’t afford a scene like this?” 

He came closely to her and leaned over her. 

“Helga, you can’t. My God—six stories! My dear 
—my dear—don’t do this thing just to—spite me. I 
don’t give a damn whether you do it or not—I don’t 
give a damn about anything or anybody but you. I 
have left Miles. Come back to me-” 

She raised a shaking hand to stem the torrent of 
words. 

“There’s the door bell, Drake.” They stood in 
silence while the outer door opened. Then Mr. Rosen¬ 
berg entered, beaming, vivacious, delighted. He cast 
a curious glance at Drake as he shook hands with 
Helga with that pumping, intimate clasp which he con¬ 
sidered his greatest asset. 

“Well, my dear, we’re all fixed up.” He dre^ some 
papers from his pocket. “Just sign on the dotted 
line—ha-ha! And we’ll be ready for tomorrow. Have 
you seen the papers? They give us a wonderful write¬ 
up, lots of publicity. We got permission to use an old 
cut of you—you know, the snappy one in the bathing 
suit!” His look figuratively punched Helga in the 
ribs, then he half winked at Drake. Helga seemed to 
ignore the latter. She made no move to perform the 
introduction for which the plump manager was obvi¬ 
ously waiting. 

“Let me look them over, Mr. Rosenberg. Ah, all 
right. You’ve signed here, haven’t you?” She lifted 



308 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


the pen as Drake started forward. Her cool, forbid¬ 
ding look halted him as though it had been an unex¬ 
pected rapier between them. Then she seated herself 
at the desk and rapidly wrote her signature twice. 
As she blotted it, she glanced up. 

“I think I hear Ed in the hall. Do you want to call 
him in, Mr. Rosenberg? Mother and he will witness 
the signatures.” 

Ed entered the room, halted a moment and then 
came forward, slight, self-possessed, and with no curi¬ 
osity evident on his lean face. Three minutes later, 
Mr. Rosenberg was ushered out with a cordial des¬ 
patch that made him wonder why he had arrived with 
such speed at the door of his limousine. He had wanted 
to stay—he had had no intention of departing so sud¬ 
denly—yet somehow he was here, and apparently by 
his own volition. As the chauffeur slammed the door, 
however, the manager’s look faded into a satisfied 
smile. He wasn’t one of those fellers who stuck 
around when they’d finished their business! 

Back in the living room, Helga faced Drake, Ed and 
her mother with a tense look. She had arisen and 
now her fingers grasped the back of her chair. 

“Ed,” she said, addressing him directly, “I must ask 
you to make it clear to my husband that until after 
tomorrow—I cannot see him—or talk to him. He 
doesn’t really understand how important it is that I 
shouldn’t get upset in any way. And now I’ll leave 
you. You’ll find me in the gym, Ed.” 

She was gone, gone before her mother’s bewildered 
look could penetrate the bitter mask of her face, before 
Drake could put out a detaining hand, before Ed could 
make halting, taciturn explanations. Up in the gym¬ 
nasium, she worked fiercely, concentratedly, as she 
had never worked before. It was like some weird, 


MR. ROSENBERG IS SOOTHED 309 


horrible nightmare that she should be here, that to¬ 
morrow was on her heels, that Drake stood there in 
the Petersen parlor with that tired, despairing look 
that had almost unnerved her. Work! She loved it 
—the harder, the more difficult the feats that she 
attempted, the greater was her savage, unflagging 
energy. She seemed to possess the recklessness of that 
thirteen-year-old Venus, the inventiveness of that 
eighteen-year-old Venus, the delicate caution and sure¬ 
ness of her last two years. 

With the little theatrical cry that always ended her *• 
act, she sprang finally to the platform and bowed 
airily to her imaginary audience, smiled her famous 
smile directly at a cobwebbed window. Then she 
leaped to the floor—and found Ed facing her. He 
came forward and seized her hands. His brown face 
was wrinkled with smiles. 

“Atta girl! That’s the old stuff—and better than 
the old stuff. You’ve got some new tricks there that 
you been holdin’ out on me-” 

“No, I haven’t,” she interrupted him with a tense 
smile. “I made them up this afternoon. Am I good? 
Will I do—tomorrow?” 

“I’ll say,” he commented admiringly, and then threw 
her a curious look. “If your husband can work you 
up like that, I’ll bring him around tomorrow before 
your act!” 

Helga seated herself on the edge of a leather hurd¬ 
ling horse, and pushed a strand of honey-colored hair 
from her eyes. 

“Ed,” she said, “did you talk to him?” 

“Some,” he admitted and then added whimsically, 
“but Ma has stole a march on us. She wouldn’t let 
me half get through before she had almost the whole 
story—out of him!” 



310 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Ma!” Helga’s face was stony with amazement. 
Ed nodded unctuously. 

“Yeh—she’s heaps smarter than even I ever thought. 
She’s fat and quiet, Venus—but she’s got the whole 
of us sized up—years ago—sittin’ there so quiet—em¬ 
broiderin’. Huh! Well, anyways, I finally got froze 
out of the conversation. They was chummin’ up, an’ 
when I left it looked like you was goin’ to be Mrs. 
Drake Gellert, or Ma’d know the reason why! ” Helga 
rose slowly and scuffled her feet. Then she looked at 
her brother. Her voice was quiet, but he recognized 
the firmness of her tone. 

“Ed, I love my family—and I’ll do a lot for them. 
I’m doing something for them now. But I can’t con¬ 
sent to any one —any one —trying to arrange this par¬ 
ticular affair. No one but myself knows the whole 
story—no one knows how much my happiness and 
pride is affected. I’ve come back, I’ve been begged 
to come back. But no one need think that after I’ve 
done this one thing I can calmly be pushed somewhere 
else like a naughty child. If I’d obeyed my marriage 
vows, to put it dramatically, I wouldn’t be here now. 
So I wish—and demand, that the family stay out of 
this particular situation. Ed, you understand?” she 
pleaded. He said nothing for a moment, then he 
patted her shoulder. 

“My chief business with you, Venus, has always 
been to understand—and disapprove! Why should 
I get started different now?” Then he abruptly 
changed the subject. Ed never nagged. “I* just been 
down to have another look at the place. They’s two 
big theaters—the old one and the new one. The new 
one is six stories—has offices down below, you know. 
Th’ other one is only three stories and a half, but 
they’re going to rig up a contraption on the roof that’ll 


MR. ROSENBERG IS SOOTHED 311 


make it at least four stories. That ain’t quite so bad 
as six, is it?” 

“High enough,” the girl laughed, “but I thought 
they had been advertising it as six?” Ed shrugged. 

“You know them advertisin’ men. They said you’d 
tight-rope from a six-story buildin’—and that’s what 
you’ll be doin’. Foxy, ain’t they? Now, Kid, what I 
want to know is—do you want to test that in the day¬ 
time? It can be done early tomorrow morning soon 
as it’s light, without no one seein’ you. We’re testin’ 
the lightin’ again tonight.” 

Venus averted her eyes. 

“No, Ed, I don’t want to test it. It would be 
worse than—tomorrow night. You know, the excite¬ 
ment of the crowd and everything like that—helps you 
get through.” 

“That’s so,” slowly. 

“Besides—I can count on you to see that the wire 
and the lights and all the apparatus are in good condi¬ 
tion, so why should I just give myself an extra strain?” 
She smiled whimsically. “If they weren’t all right— 
I could have as mean a fall at four in the morning as 
I could at ten at night—and without giving the crowd 
any thrills!” 

Ed gripped her hand suddenly. 

“Kid, you’re all right. You’re as nervy as they 
make ’em. Now, hustle along home for supper, or 
Ma’ll take a slipper to us. You got to be in bed at 
eight. Grandpa Ed will be goin’ over that apparatus 
tonight with a fine-tooth comb, so pound the pillow 
good and hard. Tomorrow night, you’ll be sittin’ 
pretty, two thousand in your hand—and a husband in 
the bush. Make it snappy!” 


XXI 

The Worst Abyss 

ILES, I can’t see you today.” Helga’s 
voice was unsteady over the telephone. 
“I am sorry—since you are sailing tomor¬ 
row, but you must see it’s impossible— 
today.” 

“Helga, has Drake been there?” 

“Yes.” 

“You have seen him then?” There was a note of 
eagerness in his voice that the girl could not fathom. 
Her reply was still cool. 

“Yes, I have seen him—I’m sorry but I must close 
off now.” The man’s voice reached her ears more 
loudly. 

“Helga, forgive me, will you? And—be good to 
Drake.” There was a click as the receiver at the 
other end was hung up. Helga replaced hers slowly. 
She was still trembling from the confusion of emo¬ 
tions that had first possessed her at the sound of his 
voice. Then, as she assorted these impressions, she 
found that the predominant one was that of relief. She 
had been relieved to know that he was sailing for 
Europe, for an indefinite length of time. That swift, 
quickly passing influence in her life had been re¬ 
moved, in all probability, forever. Sometime, in her 
gallery of memories, the more poignant, distasteful, 
fascinating phases of this man would fade to dull hues, 
leaving only a portrait, done in somber oils, of his lean, 
brown face—against a background of books. 

That library seemed eternities and continents away 
now. Had she ever lolled there, dreamily staring out 
312 










THE WORST ABYSS 


313 


of the blurred windows at May rain? Had she ever 
smiled at her reflection in a mirror which painted in a 
background of lavender and violet silks—or bronze 
and golden warmth? It seemed incredible. She 
smiled faintly as her fingers traced the leering cracks 
that could hardly disfigure the wall paper of the hall 
any more than its own pattern of misshapen brown 
flora had already disfigured it. 

Yet she could not have come from that golden room 
of hers miles away to do this thing that she was to do 
tonight. It had demanded the preparation of this 
practical, calm, mediocre atmosphere, of early hours, 
and special exercise—and stoical companions. 

She turned back into the living room at her mother’s 
call. 

“Just come in, Baby? Aren’t you home early?” 
The question was a purely rhetorical one. Of course 
her mother was perfectly aware that on this day, Ed 
had allowed Venus only five brisk moments of actual 
work on the wire, and had then bundled her home 
again to rest and lounge and beautify herself. So Mrs. 
Petersen hardly waited for her daughter’s reply before 
questioning her further. 

“Who was on the ’phone? I hope nothing’s gone 
wrong with any of the arrangements?” 

Helga seated herself on the couch and flung her 
arms behind her head. 

“It was only a friend,” she replied indifferently. 
Mrs. Petersen bit off her thread and threw the girl a 
swift glance before she spoke. 

“I bet it was your man.” Helga flushed. 

“It wasn’t.” Her answer was almost sharp, in a 
tone which she had not used toward her mother since 
the spoiled days of her adolescence. Then she averted 
her glance from the steady black eyes. 


314 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Leave that business alone, Ma!” she flashed, and 
more softly, “please.” The older woman folded her 
embroidery carefully and Helga sighed. When her 
mother laid her work aside, it was because she intended 
to discuss matters of vital importance. For a few 
moments there was silence, and the two women meas¬ 
ured each other across the bar of afternoon sunlight 
that lay on the dusty carpet. Finally Mrs. Petersen 
crossed her arms over the swell of her black-silk 
bosom, gazing out of the window, and spoke. 

“I’m goin’ to say my say, Helga, and it’s right you 
should listen. Baby, you can’t throw away everythin’ 
that’s botherin’ you without even lookin’ at it. Your 
man is a good man. I, Gisela Farnese, say that—and 
I know men as you, Baby, ain’t ever known men. 
You’re goin’ to keep to him now and be a good wife to 
him—you hear me?—or you shame your mama as you 
never shamed her before.” 

The rocker creaked through the silence of the room. 
Then the girl arose, tight-lipped. 

“He’s got around you, Ma, but not around me. I’d 
have to be kidnapped before I’d go to him now. I—I 
did love him, but our—ideas don’t—mix.” 

“He said he feels lots different now—about a lot of 
things, Venus.” 

“He has never said so to me. He has only made 
love to me, and that isn’t the same.” 

“Sometimes it is,” her mother replied placidly. 
Helga shrugged. 

“Don’t pick on me today, Ma. I’m going to lie 
down a little while before supper—I’d rather sleep 
than just sit around—so I’m not at home to—anv- 
body.” 

She emphasized the last word significantly as she 
walked out of the room. She had a dim suspicion as 


THE WORST ABYSS 


315 


to whom her mother had been talking early that 
morning. Mrs. Petersen did not raise her eyes as her 
daughter left her. She still sat there serenely, but the 
rocker had become immobile and her hands were still 
idle, in her lap. 

It was close upon eight o’clock that evening when 
Helga awoke in the dying September light. As her 
eyes fell on the clock she experienced that familiar 
clutch in the chest—and the lump in the throat that 
must be swallowed quickly—all the ancient symptoms 
of that demon, stage-fright. But the vertigo passed 
almost instantly, and she knew it would not again 
attack her until a few minutes before the actual time 
for her stunt. She bathed in a leisurely fashion, 
brushed and groomed her splendid hair into its cus¬ 
tomary style for professional work, a style which cun¬ 
ningly combined the exotic and the practical—and 
then she slipped her negligee over her scanty lingerie. 

A few minutes later she was out in the dining room. 
The family had gathered with an apparent casualness 
that deceived none of them, least of all, Helga. But 
she admired, as one admires extraordinarily good 
actors, her father’s deep absorption in the evening 
papers, her mother’s slow adjusting of the dishes, Ed’s 
teasing persecution of his small aunt. Natural, every 
bit of it, too natural! She laughed aloud as they all, 
almost at the same moment, elaborately discovered her 
presence in the room. 

“Wake up, folks,” she said as she seated herself at 
the table. “It was a good scene while it lasted. But 
I’ll wager every one of you has worse stage-fright than 
I have! Ed, too,” she said mischievously. Her 
mother suddenly exhaled a deep breath and sank into 
the seat opposite her daughter. 

“Honest, Baby—I wish it was me, instead of you.” 


316 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


This remark provoked a general babble of protests, 
exclamations, reluctant laughs, as Ed admitted he him¬ 
self had the “willies,” Tina hopped affectionately and 
volubly about Helga, and Mr. Petersen wiped his 
glasses with hands that trembled with pride and excite¬ 
ment. 

“That’s better,” the girl remarked calmly, as she 
finished her fruit. “Now you’ll be over it before we 
start—and I’ll be able to indulge in them myself.” 

“I wish,” said her mother anxiously, “that you 
should have them now, like I did—the shivers, you 
know. Then the half hour before I went on, I was all 
over them. You—you always go so calm until the last 
minute—and I always wonder then are you really goin’ 
to do it.” 

“She ever been yellow?” Mr. Petersen demanded of 
his wife. “When she was thirteen, she walked along with 
me to the dock, calm as you please. The minute she 
got to the ladder that took her up the mast—I thought 
she’d go in a dead faint. Looked at me with eyes as 
big as saucers, like a little sick cat. Just looked at me. 
In two minutes—I waited and didn’t say a word—she 
let go my hand, laffed right in my face—and was up 

the ladder before you could scratch a match-” 

He beamed at his daughter proudly, but she knew the 
anxiety behind his smile. She rose and began prowl¬ 
ing about the room. Then she turned and seized her 
mother and Tina in her two strong arms. 

“Go do something—quick! The dishes. And Pa, 
you take a walk around the block. I’m going to read, 
but I can’t with all of you staring at me as though I 
were brittle. Ed, is there a nice calm story in one of 
those magazines?” He tossed it to her with a smile 
and, for the next hour, the house was strangely silent. 
At times, the girl became really interested in her story, 


THE WORST ABYSS 


317 


at other moments the very print seemed to blur before 
her eyes and she felt a fierce restlessness at this en¬ 
forced wait. Once, it seemed to her, the door bell rang 
faintly, and her mother’s voice had murmured for an 
unusual length of time in the outer hall. Then a door 
slammed, and all was silent again. 

Her patience had been strained almost to the utter¬ 
most when she heard the old clock strike nine, slowly, 
finally. Then she raised her eyes, which had been 
studiously on the magazine in her lap. Her glance 
met Ed’s measured gaze. How long had he been sitting 
there, unoccupied, his look unwinkingly upon her? 
But such a calm, humorous, steady look it was, one 
that re-vitalized her, and put comfort and serenity into 
her for the moment. 

“Ed,” she said, driven suddenly to an utterance at 
which she was aghast before it had left her lips, “I’m 
not up to form.” 

There was a dead silence, then he nodded slowly and 
his look was unchanged. 

“I know, Kid—but you’ll go through just the same. 
Your nerves’ll do it for you.” 

“Ed, if anything goes wr-” 

“Sh! Venus, I’ll be there. Nothin’s goin’ wrong. 
Run along now, Kid, and get into your work rags. 
Them clothes will put their eyes out if anythin’ will.” 
And Venus obediently went to her room. 

Her hands were steady as she took the clothes her 
mother had laid out for her, and donned them, with 
quick, brisk movements. Then came the make-up, 
which was necessarily heavy, because of the night 
shadows and her distance from the spectators that 
would mill in the streets below. Cold cream first, then 
a dusty over-veneer of yellowish powder, that would 
gleam a startling white under the great searchlights; 



318 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


and finally the cleverly applied rouge, lipstick and the 
black mascaro that would accentuate the length of her 
lashes. She made a little grimace at herself as she 
gazed at this almost clownish mask in the cracked 
mirror. Here was no Helga Gellert, but her old ghost, 
Venus Petersen, in possession of the flesh once more. 
How hideous and hard she looked—though she was 
well aware that her public, barred from her by her 
altitude, and dazzled by the blaze of lights, would see 
only a straight, supple young girl with witching, natural 
coloring. Drake—perhaps Miles, would be there in the 
crowd. Would they be infected by the admiration and 
the stage worship that runs like a tenuous thread 
quickly broken, through such a group of people—or 
would they suffer themselves contemptuously to be 
jostled and shouted at—storing up each inane and 
vulgar comment that would herald her appearance—as 
bitter proof of their secret convictions? Miles, what 
did it matter what he might think? Drake? Ah, her 
own bitterness was such that she writhed under the 
thought of his possible reactions—and the next mo¬ 
ment triumphantly gloated over them. 

She turned as the door was opened. Ed stood there. 

“I persuaded the others to go on ahead/’ he said 
quietly. “Figured you wouldn’t care for any last min¬ 
ute directions-” But she knew that in reality it 

was from possible tears and imminent collapse that he 
had shielded her. She put away from her the sudden 
realization that this occasion was being marked by an 
unusual amount of solicitude. Did they all dimly 
guess—or know—what she and Ed had realized the 
last few days—that she was not quite up to form? 
She wrapped a gorgeous golden cloak around her and 
turned out her lights methodically. 

“Let’s go, Ed.” And he only squeezed her arm with 



THE WORST ABYSS 


319 


a fleeting pressure as they stepped into the taxi. For 
a few minutes they did not speak. Then Helga, who 
had been deliberately focussing her mind on the pedes¬ 
trians and houses that they passed, turned to Ed with 
a little smile. He noted the clearness of her eyes and 
the steadiness of her tone with some trepidation. That 
was the way Venus always was, calm to the last min¬ 
ute, then seized with a chattering ague of fright, which, 
however, at least before, had always left her in com¬ 
mand of herself. Would she come through this time? 

“That’s the second group of men we’ve slowed down 
in front of,” she laughed. “Do you suppose the driver 
is taking me on a triumphal round of his friends?” 

“That’s what it is to be famous,” he drawled, and 
glanced at his watch. “Quarter of. Guess we won’t 
be late.” 

“I’d rather be late than early,” the girl drew her 
cloak closer around her shoulders. “It’s ghastly to have 
to sit and—wait.” She suppressed the question that 
had been rising again and again to her lips during this 
drive. She would not ask it. Ed would have told her. 
Ed always knew best. The net? 

The car was moving slowly now through a con¬ 
stantly increasing jam of motors and pedestrians. 
They were nearing the theatrical district that had 
sprung up like a fungus growth in this rather unkempt 
part of the city, and the street crowds were constantly 
being augmented by an outpouring of theater-goers 
who were leaving the houses early to obtain a glimpse 
of a greater novelty. The car crawled, and almost 
halted. Then the taxi driver signalled desperately to 
one of the traffic officers. The man strode to them 
with a growl of impatience which quickly faded into 
deference as the driver made a low, brief explanation. 
Helga leaned forward deliberately and the light fell on 


320 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


her painted face, whose cosmetics could not hide the 
youth in her eyes and the charming smile. 

The officer removed his cap smartly for an instant, 
and beamed in return. Then he wheeled and shouted 
a number of unintelligible orders—unintelligible to the 
girl. But as though by magic, the surrounding cars 
began to painfully back and turn, close together and 
form a jagged lane into which the driver of the girl’s 
car skillfully wheeled his vehicle. The night was day 
now, gay with electric signs, with the jostling, good- 
natured crowds. As they drew farther down the 
block, a huge sign, formed of hundreds of glassy elec¬ 
tric eyes, splashed itself against the velvet jet of the 
night. Helga read it, leaning forward so that the 
lights of the street glistened on her lashes: 

Venus Petersen Opens 
THE NEW VARIETY THEATER 
Tonight! 

Special Show Ten to Twelve 

AND 

MIDNIGHT REVUE 

The girl stripped the gloves from her left hand and 
curiously examined her palm. It was warm, dry, and 
steady. She laughed across at Ed. 

“Running true to form so far, old dear.” But his 
answering smile was rather tight-lipped. He tapped 
on the glass and spoke through the tube. 

“Take us to the stage entrance of the new theater.” 

The chauffeur’s head was inclined and the car made 
a new turn, diving through what seemed a solid mass 
of boisterous pedestrians who were swarming in the 
street. Helga looked at them and then shrank back 
in the car. Hitherto they had been her children, her 


THE WORST ABYSS 


321 


admiring, good-natured public. Now she seemed to 
sense something she had never noticed before—the 
ugly, helpless feeling that they waited, like so many 
buzzards, for—accidents. Was that in reality the 
thrill she had always given them? Not a thrill at her 
cleverness, her dexterity, her youthful audacity—but 
the suspense, the gluttonous suspense, of waiting for 
the inevitable failure that must come to her some time? 
Did they always hope, even subconsciously, that this 
would be the time? She thrust the stark ugliness of 
this theory from her resolutely, but the faint bitterness 
of it lingered like a sour flavor. 

“Here we are/’ she said calmly. The street was a 
back eddy, now, and comparatively empty, save for a 
few of the more knowing ones, doubtless connected 
with the theater itself, who had congregated about the 
stage door. The chauffeur flung open the door and 
accepted his fare without even a glance at it. His 
eyes were riveted on the girl’s face. She averted it 
from him, half unconsciously. His had seemed an 
honest, boyish face—but did his eyes seek to register 
every detail of her appearance so that the following 
morning—if anything happened—he could morbidly 
reconstruct in his mind that physical perfection of 
hers that had been—destroyed? 

The hand which was limply extended to Mr. Rosen¬ 
berg’s eager and relieved clasp, was quickly with¬ 
drawn. There were subdued murmurs as she drew the 
cloak closely about her face and hurried through the 
stage door, knowing the comments that were probably 
being made—that Venus Petersen had become “up¬ 
stage and snooty” in the months during which her pub¬ 
lic had heard nothing of her. She didn’t care. Sud¬ 
denly she didn’t care. She wanted only to be through 
with this business, to be alone again in her own room. 


322 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


How can any one really long for material things? 
The only precious thing to her at that moment was the 
exquisite hour that lay ahead, the hour when her feat 
would have become an accomplished fact. And it was 
the only thing that neither money nor brains could buy 
her—or any one—that hour in the future. One could 
only wait, wait, wait. 

She allowed herself to be hurried through corridors 
that led past dressing rooms, and her smile at the jolly 
and curious faces that peered at her from various 
doors, was only vague. Up an iron staircase and still 
another, and another. Hadn’t Ed said that the wire 
was to be only four stories up? Never mind, four 
stories or six, what did it matter! At last she stood in 
the little boarded room, and hardly knew how she had 
reached it. It suddenly seemed very still in here, and 
she discovered that her escort had dwindled to Ed, Mr. 
Rosenberg and two men, evidently mechanics of some 
sort. 

She looked about her with an impersonal interest, at 
her companions, at the room, bare except for a couch 
and the apparatus, at the large window which framed 
the sky beyond—framed it save where the supports 
and wire seemed to cut the picture. It was from that 
window then, that she was to step—from this height, a 
height that allowed her, even in a crowded city, to see 
a sinister expanse of deep indigo sky. 

She stepped to the window and looked down. 
Lights from below bit upwards, sharply at first, but 
diffusing at this height into a soft, radiant cloud 
through which the mass of spectators below seemed as 
vague, and infinitesimal as gnats clustered in a low 
swamp. How far they must be. The calls and 
shouts that beat against her ears must come from spots 
more near at hand. As she looked straight ahead of 


THE WORST ABYSS 


323 


her, she heard one of the men move at her side, and set 
quietly to work on a large black object. In another 
moment two cylinders of light, powerful, dazzling, 
crossed each other, wavered, and met in a steady globe 
of radiance between the two theaters—one from this 
window, one from the roof of the old theater. 

It was noonday up here now, and a noonday that 
enabled the girl to see, clustered like flies, hundreds of 
people leaning from the available windows of the 
theaters and other buildings near by, and perilously 
crowding the roof of the old theater, the roof which 
was to be her first objective. Helga turned back to 
Ed. 

“Let’s see,” she said, in dry, colorless tones, “I make 
a return trip, don’t I—back here?” He nodded, know¬ 
ing that she had merely spoken rhetorically. They 
had gone over each point in detail, days before. Mr. 
Rosenberg came forward briskly now, rubbing his 
palms. 

“The flashing of those lights is a signal that Mr. 
Kahn is through his announcement, and is waiting for 
you to appear,” he said, and his voice trembled ner¬ 
vously. 

A sick, premonitory shudder ran through Helga. 
She clutched Ed as she felt her knees almost giving 
way under her, as she felt her palms become cold and 
slippery with perspiration. Her eyes drooped and 
then widened unseeingly into her brother’s gaze. 

“Ed—I’ve got them!” He put his arm about her 
and then braced himself against the wall calmly. 

“I know it, Kid—hang on. You’ll be all right in 
a minute.” The man who was behind the searchlight 
did not turn his head though his shoulders twitched 
inquiringly, but Mr. Rosenberg ran forward anxiously. 

“What is this? v Is it she’s sick or something? My 


324 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


God, ain’t that my luck all over—and Kahn devillin’ 
me all the time about what a damn fool idea anyway— 

and then the tickets sellin’ so good and now this-” 

He danced futilely around, and then Ed released one 
hand and pushed him aside. His eyes, even in the 
confusing lights of the room, focussed upon the pa¬ 
thetic Mr. Rosenberg and subdued him. 

“My sister is always like this—just before. Keep 
quiet. She always comes around. There, there, Kid 
—any better?” 

Through the nausea that was gripping her, the girl 
had heard Ed’s words. They were as cool, as bracing 
as his wiry arms. She swallowed hard, and her shak¬ 
ing body was suddenly still. Then she raised her head 
and gently moved from Ed. The men were silent as 
she slowly drew her cloak from her shoulders and 
dropped it on the couch. She was composed, her fea¬ 
tures were no longer rigid—and only Ed noticed that 
her lips were compressed. He leaned down and whis¬ 
pered to her. 

“Kid, there’s a net, if you want it. They can rig it 
up in ten minutes.” She seemed to stand more 
straightly and her lips softened as she replied. 

“Thank you, Ed. But I don’t want it—now. Thank 
you for being so sure of me not to have had them 
put it up. I’m all right, honestly. Ready, Mr. 
Rosenberg.” 

From the center of the room the little platform 
rose, and from the latter the shining wire ran through 
the window and glittered across the space between the 
two theaters. The girl ran up the platform, flexed for 
a moment the supple muscles of her feet and calves and 
then stood motionless, hands lightly on the ropes that 
surrounded the tiny platform. Full in the glare of the 
searchlights, she now was, and only briefly her real 


THE WORST ABYSS 


325 


smile flickered across her face as she looked down at 
her brother. Then her expression became the moulded 
stone of professional vivacity, that smile that never 
slips or wavers. 

Her feet were on the wire, lightly, firmly. It seemed 
so solid, so sure, so dependable here inside the room— 
but what a tenuous thread it became—out there. 

“Wish me luck, folks,” and with a gay little laugh, 
Venus Petersen was outside the room. They crowded 
to the window to watch her, but her thoughts had 
solidified into one emotion that at first took no account 
of any others. Always she looked across, or up, as 
the twinkling feet of her slid, danced, mocked the 
dull crowd below. Great roars went up from time to 
time, as they watched her coquet with the short, but 
sinister distance that she had to cover. This was the 
Venus that they loved—the winsome, adorable Venus 
who was generous in her flirtation with Fate. Any 
one else would have skipped across that distance as 
quickly as possible and considered that they had given 
the spectators their money’s worth. Not Venus Peter¬ 
sen. There she danced, the little beggar (only fifteen 
years old, she was—not forty, as the next man super¬ 
ciliously was explaining), as though she hadn’t a nerve 
in the whole pretty body of her! 

“What is she doing now? Hey! Look at that, will 
you. They say she’s walkin’ on double wires. What’s 
that? Invisible net? Don’t you believe it! I seen 
that baby perform before. She gives the real goods. 
That’s why she makes the money she does. Twenty- 
five thousand for each stunt, yes, sir. Has a big place 
up on the Sound—folks are her guardians.” 

So the buzz, buzz, buzz, went on below—there in 
the safe, solid streets. Only a few of the shouts reached 
the girl’s ears, shouts faintly attenuated, and those 


326 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


were the cries of the spectators who called from nearby 
windows. She was very near the other platform now. 
Another moment and she had safely reached it and was 
leaning across the ropes to smile at the mob that milled 
around her. Three policemen vigorously thrust them 
back, but one of them bashfully tossed her the bou¬ 
quets that were piling up at the foot of the platform. 
She kissed her hand at the bouquets, and smilingly 
shook her head to indicate that she must be left undis¬ 
turbed for her return journey. Those on the roof top 
almost instantly sobered into silence. They assumed a 
new gravity of demeanor, an importance—as though 
this close glimpse of the girl—her departure from this 
roof, had made them, in a sense, responsible hosts. 
Only one hoodlum tried to thrust himself past the po¬ 
licemen to shout maudlin, endearing epithets at her. 
Drunk, Helga thought indifferently, and her cold look 
directly at him, sobered him sufficiently so that he 
slunk back a trifle. 

Some one was handing a parasol to her. A parasol? 
Oh, yes, of course they wouldn’t be content with what 
she had just given them. Thrills, more thrills. She 
shrugged, half unconsciously, gripped the gay-hued 
object, and started on her return journey. She was 
past emotion now, even of fear. Her mind, under this 
physical strain had winged away to a thousand irrele¬ 
vant things—the coolness of the night, the bizarre 
poster on a distant wall, the pattern of the theatre win¬ 
dow—yet all the time something in her was focussing 
desperately on this wire beneath her feet. 

A few feet from the safety of the roof, her fingers 
slowly sought the clasp of the parasol, released it and 
gently unfurled the gaudy folds. Vaguely her mind 
became uneasy. This was more difficult than in an 
enclosure, for the night had become cloudy and a 


THE WORST ABYSS 


327 


breeze of some strength was springing up across the 
roof tops. She dare not risk holding it. A quick gust 
might be dangerous if it should catch in the bowl of 
the parasol. She took a few quick steps as she tried to 
decide whether to drop the thing. It might hit some 
one. Still, it was very light, and every one would see 
it coming. A good stunt anyway. Every one would 
think it a part of the business and they would fight for 
the fragments of it as souvenirs. 

Her feet deftly retreated a little, she deliberately 
held the parasol from her, and allowed it to drift from 
her fingers, to delicately swoop and swerve ever nearer 
the ground. But her eyes were not upon it, nor her 
thoughts. Suddenly she had a fierce desire to win 
back to that other window, the window which held 
Ed’s silhouette, the window which spelled the accom¬ 
plishment of her contract. She spread her arms pret¬ 
tily and raised one foot with a caution that seemed 
recklessness to the watchers. 

Suddenly came a shout, oaths, something whizzed 
through the air, drunken laughter accompanying it. 
A furled umbrella struck the girl straight between 
the shoulder blades. 

In less than a second, it seemed, it had happened. 
She had slipped from the wire, and as she slipped, her 
elbow and then her hands scraped it. Her hands had 
brushed it and held—blessed, wonderful hands, hands 
that worked their function with no message from the 
confused brain. She hung—was it an eternity—and 
for what seemed eons of time could feel no emotion 
save a dull, searing pain in one shoulder blade, a pain 
that increased with the continued strain upon these 
muscles. Then desperately she tried to banish panic 
and focus her wits. She had done this as a stunt, often 
—right in the gym the last few days. If she could only 


328 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


pretend that this was the gym, with the old warped 
floor a scant four feet below her. It was no use. How 
could she believe it, with the night staring straight 
into her eyes, with distant steeples blackly painted 
almost within her line of sight? Where was Ed? 
What was this sickness, the fickle heat and cold that 
swept alternately over her inert body? Thank God, 
her hands knew nothing of it, that they still clung stoi¬ 
cally to the familiar wire. Where was Ed? Wouldn’t 
he realize that this was not part of her stunt, that she 
was helpless here, that she had lost—her nerve? 

Of course he would realize it. He would get her out 
somehow. She had been struck—some damn fool had 
thrown something at her. Every one must have seen 
that. How still it seemed, no one on the roof was shout¬ 
ing—or perhaps she was growing faint. Drake! Ed! 

The wire began to tauten and jerk under her fingers. 
She was scarcely conscious of it. She only knew that 
some inner power, some futile urge made her fingers 
still clutch their hold, as though they were agencies 
external to her own suffering body. Then—so close 
that it was like an absurd dream, she heard a voice— 
a calm, reassuring voice. Turning her head painfully, 
she saw Ed. He had inched his way along the wire, 
hand crossing hand, until now he was at her side. 

“Here I am, Kid. See how easy I done it? D’you 
think you can follow after me now, careful?” 

“Oh, Ed!” she gasped, and tears began to stream 
helplessly down her cheeks. “I don’t know whether I 
can make it or not. My shoulder—some one threw 
something—at me.” 

“Steady there. Now listen. I’ll keep my hand close 
to yours. See if you can’t come back the way I come. 
If you feel faint or your hands hurt, grab onto me 
and I can pull us both.” 


THE WORST ABYSS 


329 


“Ed, I can’t.” Nevertheless, the girl was tenta¬ 
tively trying to release the fingers of one hand from 
the wire. They seemed to have been soldered to it. 

“Yes, you can.” Ed’s voice was stern. “They’re 
rigging up the net now, and if we can only hang 
on-” 

Helga laughed hysterically, the laugh choked in her 
throat by the contorted angle at which her head had 
been hanging. 

“I’m moving, Ed.” 

“That’s the girl.” As they inched along, his eyes 
turned watchfully toward her, he murmured in a 
brisk, commonplace voice that would have been ab¬ 
surdly inappropriate had it not been for the motive 
which prompted him to adopt just that tone. 

“Big crowd down there. Gettin’ their thrill all right, 
ain’t they? Don’t try to talk. You got hit with an 

umbrella. Some drunken - saw you drop your 

parasol and threw the umbrella at you before they 
could stop him. They just about lynched him, I guess. 
Hell of a joke, wasn’t it? Nearly there now, Kid.” 

“Is the net up—yet?” the girl gasped through dry, 
burning lips. Ed’s reply was cheerful. 

“Sure—it probably is. But we’re nearly at the win¬ 
dow. If you can hang on a minute more—or less, 
you’ll make a grand exit. Besides your shoulder is 
hurt, it might damage it a little more to drop in the 
net. Easy does it now. Here we are!” 

The lights still beat powerfully upon them. Shouts 
and exclamations seemed louder now. Why wasn’t 
there any smoke? Then the girl realized that this 
wasn’t the night of the fire. Yet how similar it 
seemed. Was she living over the same experience 
twice? Were these the same arms catching her 
strongly as they reached the window? There even was 




330 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


Drake, and they were pushing him away. As they 
lifted her from the platform her knees buckled beneath 
her and she almost sank to the floor. Heavy eyelids 
half shuttered and then her eyes peered determinedly 
across the room. She moistened her lips, and brushed 
aside the comments, the solicitudes of those who sur¬ 
rounded her. 

“Who is that—on the couch? It isn’t—Ed?” 

For across the room an inert figure sprawled on the 
little cot, and a fussy, bearded man bent over it in a 
strangely idle attitude. She stumbled across the floor 
and sank on her knees beside the couch. It was Ed. 
How still he lay, how pallid and insignificant his slight, 
hard features seemed in this recumbent posture. Was 
he sick? Had he fainted? Why didn’t he open his 
eyes? She must speak to him, must tell him at once 
how she loved him—not for saving her from death, 
but for relieving the horror of the first real terror she 
had ever known. 

Querulously, like a pettish child, her hands tugged 
at him. He didn’t move, and his eyelids concealed all 
but thin crescents of white—Ed’s keen, humorous eyes. 
She laid her hair against the thick brown wave of his 
and turned wondering eyes to the doctor. 

“Why aren’t you giving him something?” There 
was silence. No one in the room but herself cared to 
challenge with that question. The man withdrew his 
hand slowly from Ed’s chest and looked at her with 
kindly, rather nearsighted eyes. 

“My dear child—your brother—needs no help-” 

“Needs no—help?” 

“It was his heart—climber’s heart, we call it, some¬ 
times—this last business did it. Don’t look like that. 
It would have happened soon, anyway, and how better 
than this? His business was dangerous, wasn’t it? 



THE WORST ABYSS 


331 


This is what he would have wished-” He bab¬ 

bled on, courteously, futilely, though his eyes were 
keen and watchful upon her face. 

But the girl had turned and thrown her arms about 
her brother’s body. The wind from the open struck 
singingly across the wire and stirred a lock of Ed’s 
hair, so that it moved with a chill tenderness against 
the girl’s cheeks. An iron hand reached into her chest, 
tore her heart out, squeezed it and replaced it in the 
breast, always to bear the brand of that swift, deep 
wound. 

“Eddie—Eddie,” she moaned, “oh, poor—poor 
mama. Poor daddy!” Firm hands were about her 
shoulders, but she strove to keep Ed close, close in 
her arms. He would never be so warm, so near again. 
She must hold this moment, hold it so that her torn 
heart could forever re-live this picture. But her 
hands were feeble. She fell into a blessed uncon¬ 
sciousness as they lifted her. 


XXII 

Wherein Venus Reaches Solid Ground 



UEER days that sprawled into weeks fol¬ 
lowed. Helga knew they were weeks 
because in the brief intervals of conscious¬ 
ness, her eyes idly registered the word 
October that stared from the calendar be¬ 
yond the foot of her bed. October! Then Ed lay 
somewhere under a carpet of red and golden leaves— 
warm, comforting colors. Snow—she couldn’t have 
borne the snow. Weakly she lifted a thin hand and 
stared at the nurse. The face which bent over her 
was oddly strange and yet familiar. 

“What is it? How long have I-” 

“Typhoid,” the nurse replied briskly. “You were 
coming down with it when, er—you’re getting along 
finely now. Turn over and go to sleep like a good 
girl.” 

“My—family?” Helga’s lips quivered. 

“All here in the house, and all anxious for you to 
get better. You know you must take care of yourself 
now, for their sakes.” Dimly the girl saw that her 
mother stood in the doorway. Words came passion¬ 
ately yet faintly through her parted lips. 

“Ma, I’ll never leave you. Ed-” and then her 

eyes closed again and she slept. 


Bizarre dreams she had. Dreams of an endless, 
rocking ride. Sometimes she seemed to swoop through 
the air with a dizzying motion. At other times she 
was half awake and drank avidly the liquids that were 
332 











VENUS REACHES SOLID GROUND 333 


put to her lips. At these times, the lights and the 
strangeness of her surroundings faintly annoyed her, 
and she was always glad to close her eyes and doze 
once more. Feeble, feeble body, once so proud of 
itself! Increasingly words beat against her ears, 
arranged themselves coherently—and yet made non¬ 
sense: 

“Of course she’s all right—just lazy, poor baby. 
She has an unusual constitution and would have con¬ 
valesced quickly if it hadn’t been for the shocks that 
came all at once. Yes, Mrs. Petersen is such a sensible 
woman—you say this was her idea? Imagine! No, 
not at all, thank you, this is a great experience for me, 
I love it. And the pilot seems to know his business. 
The other nurses were simply green with envy. Two 
more hours? I really hope she’ll sleep until we get 
there. I suppose you were in the aviation during the 
war? No? I didn’t know that sector at all. I never 
got farther than Le Havre. Perfectly sickening, hon¬ 
estly. Did you ever know—?” The voices went mur¬ 
muring on, and Helga, after a drowsy attempt to make 
the words form a sane meaning, let herself drift out 
again into the vast void of perfect silence—a void that 
of late seemed to be slipping away from her, although 
she clung to its peace desperately. 

She opened her eyes, and for a moment thought 
that she had at last captured and surrounded herself 
in her waking hours with the peaceful silence that had 
been her refuge in sleep. For the world was very 
still and a late afternoon sunlight spread impartial 
fingers over the scene before her. A familiar scene it 
was, and for a brief interlude, she idly basked in its 
quiet comfort without questioning her presence here. 

Before her was the lake, grayer now than it had 
been under July skies. But its farther edges mirrored 


334 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


a greater glory, for the deep evergreens formed only 
a background now for crimson-hued golden leaves 
that dripped to the water and dimmed the reflection of 
their own beauty. She was lying in a lounge chair, 
which had been drawn close to the rustic railing of the 
veranda, and though she was shielded from the wind, 
the water was so near that she could see the brisk 
slap of its steely waves against the beach—waves that 
ruched themselves whitely and foamed through the 
pebbles. The Camp! She roused herself now, and 
realized that for the first time in—how long?—she was 
completely, interestingly awake. 

Only her head felt oddly light and cool. She raised 
her hand tentatively, exploringly, and it paused in 
panic as it encountered a curling, springing crop of tiny 
curls. Then she sighed. Typhoid, of course. She 
remembered now. But her hair, her wonderful hair! 
For the moment this trivial distress seemed to fill 
all her world. But it could not remain. Gradually 
again the peace of the afternoon and her warm com¬ 
fort here caused the petty chagrin to fade. It was no 
use scolding about it. But she hoped, oh, she des¬ 
perately hoped it was not too unbecoming. 

There was a rustle of starched skirts in the doorway. 
The nurse, of course. And if she knew that her patient 
was awake there would be more broths and she would 
be bundled indoors. Helga perfidiously closed her eyes 
and held her breath as the skirts rustled nearer, paused 
suspiciously and then retreated through the door. 

Cautiously she opened her eyes. There had been 
brief moments of consciousness of late, even long peri¬ 
ods when she had lain motionless while her tired brain 
strove to fit together the scattered pieces of several 
puzzles. But this was the first time that she had 
awakened not only to a clear brain, but to an active 


VENUS REACHES SOLID GROUND 335 


one. Therefore these minutes were precious. There 
was so much for her to try to comprehend, so much for 
her to just feel. “The world is too much with us late 
and soon”—the words drifted to her from some forgot¬ 
ten fragment of verse. Ah, that had been her trouble. 
She had never before learned, but she was dimly sens¬ 
ing it now, that to be either witty or wise or kind, the 
soul must withdraw into itself occasionally; that it is 
only in silence and solitude that the books of life can 
be audited. Ed and his mother had never had to 
acquire this knowledge; they had been born with it. 
But she had needed drastic experiences, almost a men¬ 
tal bankruptcy, to shake her into this knowledge. 

She smiled faintly to herself. How serious she had 
been, not about herself, but about the external things 
that had operated on her life. How cocksure of her 
own rights and privileges, how erring—and how scorn- 
• ful of others’ failures! Because her mere youth had 
given her little opportunity for mistakes, she had 
assumed that she possessed an innate inability to make 
them. And in every step—from the moment that any 
sort of authority was withdrawn—she had made an 
absurd procession of errors. That she was not to be 
forced to pay for them was a mere whimsicality on 
the part of Providence that she would do well not to 
try too far. 

“No matter what happens, I have lived!” Edna 
Barlow had said that. In a panic Helga shrugged 
away from the thought. The picture of Ed, his hu¬ 
morous eyes closed forever, and doubtless upon his lips 
the same crooked little smile, was more bearable than 
the heart-tearing remembrance of the crippled girl. 
Would she welcome Helga now—cling to her? Or 
would that proud house shudder away a little farther 
from the street, would voices within it become again 


336 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


subdued—while in that upper room the last lamp 
died at the command of a bitter, imprisoned spirit? 
Helga prayed that it would not be so; prayed that 
though the surface of the girPs life might be dimmed, 
it should be dimmed only by the remembrance of past 
beauties, just as the mirrored edges of the lake re¬ 
ceived with resignation their mantel of crimsoned 
leaves—in the secure knowledge that spring comes 
again—somewhere. 

Helga tore herself away from this musing that made 
her lips quiver. Irrelevantly she sought another 
problem. She had arrived here by aeroplane. How 
on earth, why on earth? Drake, of course, must be 
implicated. Suddenly she remembered an irritable 
remark flung at her mother—that she would have to 
be kidnapped before she would return to her husband! 
She laughed grimly. She had been taken at her word. 
Surprisingly enough, the glow that warmed her thin 
blood seemed to have in it no tinge of anger. Was it 
because she was not strong enough to feel anything? 
Or was it because, somehow, in the weeks that her soul 
had been excursioning away from her body, it had 
returned wearing a new wisdom? “What a child I 
would have,” she thought irrelevantly, “if it could 
possess my body, Drake’s strength and brains, Ed’s 
humor, mother’s character and intuition, and father’s 
simplicity!” 

And because after all, she was a little tired, she 
closed her eyes again and let her mind run along the 
bizarre channel of this speculation—a speculation 
which, if there were any sane answer to it, would re¬ 
make the world. 

At a slight sound she drowsily opened her eyes. 

There before her stood Drake, blotting out the lake 
with his broad shoulders and eager, questing face. 


VENUS REACHES SOLID GROUND 337 


Their eyes met and held in a long moment, and hers 
were the first to drop. 

“How brown you are, Drake.” It was her first com¬ 
ment and she lifted a painfully thin white hand as she 
spoke. 

He came nearer, and his voice seemed breathless. 

“You’re at the camp, dear. Your folks wanted me 
to bring you—just you and I and the nurse and Wil¬ 
liam are here. Is it all right?” She felt no instinct 
to argue, nor even to wonder that this was so. 

“Of course it’s all right, Drake,” she said serenely. 
“We came in a ’plane, didn’t we? I seem to remem¬ 
ber it quite clearly now. Sit here so I can look at 
you. My hair is bobbed, isn’t it?” She must keep 
away all unpleasant, terrible thoughts now, she must 
just lie here—and be quiet. 

“It’s—slick,” he said inarticulately. “I like it. 
Helga, do you want me to talk to you, to tell you 
things, or just be still—now?” 

“Whichever you like, Drake,” she said tranquilly. 

He sank down on the footstool by her chair and took 
the hand from which the loose ring had had to be 
removed. Then he looked at her and she read the 
depths of honesty and love in his eyes. New lines had 
bitten deep into his leaner cheeks. 

“Helga, my dear, I owe a debt to your family—to 
Ed, that I couldn’t repay in just one lifetime. That 
was all I wanted to say, and I wonder if it—will tell 
you anything?” 

The girl was silent. Her eyes looked over the top 
of his head and mirrored under black lashes the very 
gray of the lake with its underlying warmth. Then 
her other hand reached out and touched Drake’s head 
lightly. Her lips parted, and trembled with some¬ 
thing of their old scarlet sweetness. 


338 


THE SWINGING GODDESS 


“Drake, dear—it tells me what I wanted to know.” 

The man’s head was lowered in what seemed a ver¬ 
itable passion of relief and she felt his lips, warm, pos¬ 
sessive on her palm. And in the inarticulate and stam¬ 
mering cadence of his voice, she seemed to know him 
completely, for all time. 

“Helga! Helga—darling-” 


The End 









LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


























































































































































































































































































